my book of dead and dying things. maybe i should write your name amongst the petals and leaves. the pressure of ink and synonyms for brooding. thinking. remembering. the placid whisper of northbound breeze. the sleeping fauna. the grasses teasing my knees. my shoulders master the weight of a week. weak. the kind of stem that bends with the strain of romanticizing. harder to overcome than the pressure against my hipbone. sit an interval. delay. blink the mounds of rock dust. swallow the scene. the flickers of trees at different stages of life. the craven and ecru seated in my eyes. my pen and my memory are fine. just dandy. frolicking in freedom. the sun becomes intimate with my skin. she lilts in my journey overlooking this city. los angeles you know the story. spiteful red lady bug feelings crawling along blades of backwards reflections. pressing tender roses like the raw bruises breathing in my head. i stepped on his spit and now i like him. i like him instinctively. i like him without learning the rules of liking. the smiling fragments of spinning in bouquets of cut away eyes. studying nature and her love of lies. a dripping cry of crackled poetry written in footsteps that parade his absence. his existence scribbled between wardrobe changes. as my skin exhales and soaks in longing. to live in the muddiness. another leap towards little birds and cactus thorns. another calendar turn. but timing is with the stars and their decision to shine. the night is clear, so i find myself brimming with wishes. and i omit your name from my notebook.