Here I am, knee deep in half-hearted prayers. I read once that there was a catholic term for people born to suffer, but then there was a June bug on its back outside my bedroom door that I carried to the safety of our back porch and now I’m not so sure anymore. Some days are good. I wrote an affirmation that reads “Experiencing connection under any circumstance is still connection worth having” and it proves a multifaceted reminder. Just one day after boasting my lack of crying I sobbed in the car listening to Willie Nelson. Is it possible there are no coincidences?
I’ll still build my stick houses and pray they’ll hold against the wind, but the weather’s been bad and summer doesn’t feel like summer anymore.
You’re nothing like anyone else and you’re just like anyone I’ve ever loved; anyone I could ever love. I don’t want to see in truths anymore. We were talking about sweat, the smell of it. You and I and I and them and others joined in. They told me about a study where attraction to sweat smell can produce “genetically hardy offspring.” We all agreed it was natural and normal at different times, and I proposed secretly that maybe the smell of sweat relates to health in the same way a dog’s paws do. I could look it up, but who cares? I decided it as fact already, anyway. The conversations had me thinking about patterns and how after I listened to the hot dog podcast I saw hot dogs everywhere. If you tell others, they’ll try to convince you it’s psychosomatic. It’s not. I am being followed everywhere I go, a bracelet at the beach, and then another as I walked the same path I took a week prior to find you.
I thought to myself “there is no fault in loyalty” and the church bells rang out for me.
My roommate thinks writing in riddles is deterring me from getting a date, but I can’t date someone I can’t write to. There are secrets buried in long winded metaphors and I can’t hold a secret. I make that well known.