Day 389.

It's the kinda evening in which I'm a bit run-down from all the living and running and working and loving and partying and writing and thinking and talking, yeah? It's the kind of evening in which I am setting good boundaries and asking for what I want and noticing that my gut feels heavy because I haven't exercised in a few days, and I know that's not good for me. It's the kinda evening in which I wish I could just check out and turn on a movie but my heart and my brain are working working working running pumping on a hamster wheel.

I'm drawing pie charts representing the most ridiculous things, on construction paper.


This evening, I wish I could get some of this clutter out of my spirit so that which needs to move through me can do so, and become a poem. But the clutter is a clusterfuck of desire and exhaustion and struggle to do only what feels good and I found the broom but got distracted and now I don't know where the dustpan is . . . and without the dustpan, what will I brush all this unnecessary shit into before dumping it into a plastic bag that will then go to a landfill and sit there trying desperately to decompose. I'm not making any sense, you see. It's messy in this here head of mine. Everything slightly askew, and not enough containers for all of the thoughts and feelings to be placed into. Socks and underwear all in the same drawer, just jammed in because I am too lazy to fold them nicely and make them all fit.

The weather right now, the temperature in here . . . I've tried to write about this before, but can't ever quite find the right words. There's a way the air gets sometimes that reminds me of summers in warmer climates and being entirely comfortable in shorts and the way that cool sheets are just what my body wants in the evening time. And there's a winter version. The air gets just thick enough, or something, even when it's cold, that makes me crave another body, makes it easy to cuddle, in this way where neither of us gets too hot or sweaty and we sort of softly cling to one another all night, just meeting each other perfectly, without wanting or taking or giving too much.

I want some legs to intertwine with mine. I want a hand, at just the right temperature, on my skin somewhere. Not trying to get anything out of me; just meeting my skin, being with it. I want to roll over and breathe deeply and smell someone else's hair.

I want the things that need to be written to just be written and the things that need to be said to just be said and all the things that need to happen to just happen. And most of all, I want to have the patience to let everything unfold as it will.