I'd rather like to spend a day writing your name, taking care to allow the cursive to choke the blue-lined whites like kudzu, giving myself no room to breathe. Not in any sort of obsessive sense but to hold the page up to my eyes and mouth and treat it as a suffocating mirror, to prove to myself that I've left no room for fresh air and that perhaps your own lovely brand of fatalism is best appropriated and applied in this very context. Wear it like a mask, this obstinate page, and burn it from my face when I'm done, revealing fresh pink life underneath in a tender pink skin.
All of the morbid thoughts of the last few weeks, all of the carefully aligned phrases I've catalogued in my head, waiting for a little serene solitude to transcribe, have drifted into gloomy little harbors to be beached ignored with the next storm. The day is far too pleasant, exiled as I am on my father's farm in Kirbyville, to pay any mind to this last week's binges and battles. I'm alone with fresh air and birdsongs.
5-16-11, a Monday