i'm in a tailspin
spinning spinning.

sometimes everything falls into place,
and other times everything just falls on my head.
and i'm thinking about breton and broken realities
and all the way pieces fit back together
even when you've ripped out seams.
and how reality is just little pieces of dreams.
and i'm thinking about sleep and sadness
and freud and sneezing.

i'm thinking about bedsheets and what you meant to me
and i don't really know why i miss you (all of you). still.
and i'm breaking apart rooms and reality and
piling up dreams like dirty laundry and
smoking smoking smoking in smears of sadness
or maybe just boredom. and i want to be blond hair
and ripped knees of too tight pants and running
and trees. birds. or maybe just their wings.
out of place and broken. sort of pretty.

maybe i won't call you for a while. and keep blinking
and i can't sleep. i can't sleep. i can't sleep. i can't read.
and i'm selfish when i just want to be quiet. and honest.
and i want you here. selfish.

sleepyhead. i want thunder and poems and you like rocks in my hands.
which is a good thing. but i forgot to mail your card.


or something.