...

Come sleep with me: we won't make love. Love will make us. | Julio Cortazar 

what the aftermath of a night of insomnia looks like...

this is such a particular time in my life. strange and a little lonely and such that when sleep finally pulls me under around 4:30 the sheets are wrinkled and i'm on my side of the bed, an open jar of peanut butter on the other. it won't always be like this, and i'm sure i'll miss those kinds of nights when they've morphed and gone altogether.

ROUND THESE PARTS

 

 

there's been a fair amount of food involved, so... there's that. (this neighborhood spoils me with all the fine places to eat. i'm really turning into a foodie snob, and i'm not even trying. oops).

(print gotten from FIRST SNOW on etsy).

and the food haunts:

Seersucker restaurant on Smith Street Smith Canteen coffee shop and Court Street Grocers 

too much

you liked him too much, my girlfriend said.

and immediately i recognized that as right. yes, too much. 

it was only later, crawling into bed, that i thought, what is too much? 

i liked him too much? what does that mean?

someday there will be a man. and he will feast on my too much. and then he will ask for more. and we will spend the rest of our lives feeding each other.

and it will be just enough.

lady m

i'm older now than you were when we met. and how old you seemed then. but we knew so little, the two of us.

now i feel like you're just the out-out-damn'd-spot story of my life. me, wringing my hands. me, rubbing out a life--a love--that no one else knew was there.

but it's right here i want to say. here on these hands that were held by him--that touched him and traced him and scooped something out of him. my hands are full of him, i want to say.

when the only thing they're full of now is my own uncertainty. and no one needs to see that to know it is there.

 photo by sam shorey