today i liked

sitting in a theater filled with people we didn't know

and some we did

i mean some that she did

and watching a terrible movie and laughing out loud

at all the same awful parts

and none of the little strangers making a sound

i liked megan's voice

and how it was so much lighter than i thought it would be

so much lighter than anything i had heard before

if i'm writing poorly it is like a whisper on winter winds

it is something forgotten, a moment shrouded in nostalgia from childhood

something like a million little ants on the sidewalk

something like being alone in a forest outside my grandparents house

if i'm writing truthfully it is soft and delicate

fragile, no not fragile, but crystalline

and her eyes that looked so unafraid into mine

and i was always the first to look away

and i will always be the first to look away

the drive home was fast and i was light

and it was a moment of pleasure that i should hold on to

like the tralfamadorians do

and it will just as pleasant to take medicine and fall asleep

to Daniel Johnston screaming about Satan in the woods

and how some things take a life time

and i wish i were a better writer when i am

sick and/or happy