I talk a lot, and then I get something to eat.

Like many twenty-something females who are a bit jaded/a bit optimistic, I have a lot of feelings.  These feelings are not necessarily good or bad. Sometimes they are simply innocent attachments to a specific people or moments.  And while I do a large amount of healing-and-dealing with a four pack of Cadbury Cream Eggs,  I also find it helpful to write.   This is an old rambling, but something I'd like to share nonetheless. My cabin is gold. Person across person, we sit like Wes Anderson characters framed in center focus, the artificial light falling on your shoulders in a yellow glow.  You remind me of a boy I read about in books. Straight out of the 50s, a letterman jacket that you may have gotten from your grandfather.  Your name would have been something like Roger, or maybe Brad.  I lay on my stomach, letting my ankles kick behind me, my legs covered in black tights with a hole from a cigarette burn.  My eyes are on your shoulders, for they are broad and I like them.  Our artistic minds are finally able to run wild, as you tell me how you lost your father and I tell you how I used to play with felt. The digital clock that runs slow ticks to 4am and I pretend not to notice and maybe you do too or maybe we were just blind.

The sun rises and the trees come out to play, white and brown on a blanket of earth. Cigarette smoke rolls from your lips as we sip coffee and don’t say much, other than that we didn’t expect morning to come so soon.