declarations

i regret everything i have written about whitney. it feels like a lot of forced and delusional beauty. i cant stand to even read the things i wrote about her because i was legitimately inspired and now i am not. at least not in that way.

i know that no one has a love for me right now that can ever touch what i imagined it was with whitney. and i cant shake the feeling that i wont be able to.

i had a dream where a scientist told me i was a paunchy loser who needed sex and his chubby lab assisstant agreed.

i literally have no sex drive.

sometimes

sometimes there is nothing more beautiful than watching a field of tall grass sway in the wind. nothing can compare the the visual bliss of seeing the shoots bend just beyond the apex of an arc and bend towards the earth. that precise moment, immediately after the uncertainty of the motion has passed, is where i can seek solace as the autumn creeps into the world.

and sometimes after the brief instant that my mind goes blank when i climax the only image i can see is the wooden paneling on the walls in jill's basement and all i can smell is the cheap perfume that all girls use where i'm from.

and sometimes after that while i am lying in bed i can smell the come on my hands and you are the only memory that is brought to mind. and i can never decide if this is a meaningful sign or if it's just depressing.

[ver 1]

sometimes i see a red wheelbarrel in my backyard

leaning purposefully against the wall of my shed

with weeds and grass sprouting up around its wheel

and rain water pooling in its rusting basin

and sometimes all i can see is how in 5 years

i've never once taken the wheelbarrel into a garden

and let the dirt cake underneath my fingernails

while i pull the deep weeds from the warm earth