the things that i think about are sex and dust and earth and wine. i think about wind and water and wide open spaces and tumbling headfirst into the abyss, about gravity and gravitas and letting go.

i think about how you were before i met you and wonder what my life must have been like without you because i no longer remember. i think about sand searing my skin and what it must have felt like not to be weary of the water because i can’t quite recall. i think of the moments just before the show starts when the room is dark and wish i could bottle up that smell and sell it for millions.

i think of how spilling a glass of orange juice in bed could ruin a relationship and how babies are born with all ten toes. i think about north korea and hate scarlett johansson  and wonder if taking a car into manhattan really saves any time at all. it only takes five minutes to get to union square from bedford avenue if you take the L train. 

i think about writing this and who reads it and wonder if you, you specifically, are staring at this page right now because these words are meant for you. i wonder if people think, incorrectly, that i’m writing to or for or because of them when i can barely even remember what they look like. i wonder if the people i’m actually writing to and for and because of know it. i wonder what that knowing feels like because thinking about it makes me itchy. 

i think about the fact that it’s only monday and how i wish it was thursday, even though there’s nothing specific on the horizon. i’m think about the click of the lock that means you’re home and the number on the scale that means i’m finally thin enough. 

i think about sex and dust and earth and wine. i think about wind and water and when the next lunar eclipse will be

and i think about me

and i think about you

and i think about us

and i think about now.