so says the straw hat

I do not know how to process the loss of someone who was, who suddenly is not. Especially when they still should. Is there an appropriate amount of stillness that needs to be held, like a cup of coffee before taking the first sip? How does one know when it is ok for the wind to keep blowing, or the birds to chirp their morning song, or the day to break wide open and the sun to shine despite the fact that this person, who just was a face for the wind to blow fiercely or softly upon, who only yesterday heard the birds singing, whose body the sun also rose to greet, is now gone. Yet nothing stops. I blink again. The minutes pass. I can’t stop being or breathing, even in stillness the water ripples, the grass grows, the muscles around the lungs contract and the winds rush in. Your memory is a kindness, an adventure, long ago friendships and late night laughter. Maybe goodbye does not require a halt or a held pose, maybe it should not be a hard freeze. Maybe it is a pause, a well

The red lights of the walkway send messages across the wrinkled bedsheet river. A morse code of night secrets. Texas summer sits so heavy and still, like being held in the mouth of a stranger. It is warm enough to swim, quiet enough to whisper, late enough for reckless. You spelled w-a-n-t with the headlights off, your manners holding space between. My mouth grew restless, my teeth grew arms and legs, went looking for diamonds and pearls. The river didn't notice, continued downstream in silence, carried the memory of being licked by the lights.

Desperation snuck in with the bees. I woke up ugly every day for a year, venomous tongue. My shoulders were icebergs of 'don't touch.' There was no map for when our bed became an ocean so we used our pillows for flotation devices. Slept holding our breath. The bees were making a hive in your chest so we dreamed of sawmills and neon. We never knew, but every time your mouth opened the buzz was deafening.

I haven't done much writing for a long long time. I am following the prompts listed on 30/30 WXW website. I have already missed days. I am not going to worry about any of the rules. They are not really rules. This may be applicable to all of life. 1/30 August was a charged balloon. A thundercloud slung low knees buckling the valley, tongue panting wet with rain. August was stripped down, an empty valence shell. The bedsheets were freshly lonesome, though touch had vanished long before the body. I bought new sheets. I left the window open. Scuffed my boots on the dance floor searching for a faster wind. August was waiting for the hurricane's hangover to play orchestral greens and purples across a bulging Texas sky. I was flint and kerosene. Matchstick ready. One shot of whiskey and a dance floor. The wind up under my skirt going 70 past the yellow dashes and hot asphalt kissing skinned knees. White arms are midnight river snakes. Sex like murder. I wake up white s

All I want is a nice, clean, functional house. And to learn how to sew.

Cristin has perfect eyesight. She doesn't even like carrots! That is a lie, maybe. I do not know how she feels about carrots. I do know that she wants to wear glasses because inside of her grown ass accomplished woman self there is her little girl and inside her as a little girl there was an image of her grown as woman self and that lady wears glasses. Same as how all the nerds on TV wear glasses. Same as how wearing glasses makes you seem "smart." Cristin doesn't need to have glasses on to seem smart though. She knows about all kinds of things. Presidents. History. Probably the table of elements. Today I was driving home from work and on the radio they were talking about the race between Romney and that other guy and how they are now looking at competing against Obama and I had a question and I wanted to call Cristin. Then I remembered she doesn't wear glasses. No, that is not really why. I just figured I would google it later. Once, a teacher told me I was ver