blog.

There’s a rock in my pocket, kneading away my uncenter. Smooth on every face with two skinned knees—like that blond kid down the street learning what it means to roam. He’s not coarse enough to hurl his body toward dusk. To know how often sterile feels the most diseased. I’m still working through what it all means, slouched into what’s left between this chair & the wall. Each turn of the rock pulsates. Pudding stains smear the corners of its lips no matter how persistent my fingers plead. Power is not the ability to influence change.

I don’t know where you’re always going, but I just spent all night making sure I could fit in your hands and keep up. It took a lot of doing—squeezing all this between the fortunes patinaed into your palms. Don’t worry, we’ll make it work. Hide every line break in its place. Scroll just so. See, the magic comes from being held the way we hoped—it’s never enough just to fit.

I’ve been here before—submerged in the sea of your elbows wishing to stay under a little longer. But I can’t ignore the warning in my lungs. Hot. Tight. Screaming in reverse against our shores. It’s time to breathe deep. Let’s be clear—this was never about the ocean, or how it lulled us together. We’re just following the drip, trying to make our splash last longer.