oh, but it isn't enough, you know, it's just not enough to close my eyes anymore. this life drags on unhappily, limping its anger and disappointment, stumbling into puddles of disgust and dispair that we all knew would come along sometime. the denuded maples and mudsplashed sidewalks remind me that the rain waits outside, steady, a hand as strong as his but a thousandtimes gentle against my face, dripping cold between my shoulderblades, between my breasts, between fingers and toes. we came inside with our bags of bristol board and razorblades, and hours later a slow drop of water slid down his cheek, warm. enough to make me cry, had this been three weeks ago. i sleep heavy dreams of blurred hands, slide cotton against my skin in waking, hate each morning that requires me to leave my bed.

i would like to live a life devoid of alarmclocks and with a wider array of flowers.