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Someone has already gotten the words that I want on my skin. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have them too. I am in lust/love/lerve with this.

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Such a long title for such a short post. Ah well, the sun is shining, I’m writing about ghost horses and rain dogs, and there is both food and yoga in my future, so stream of consciousness is the word(play) of the day. I have five minutes between here and there to write something that might, maybe, could, truly matters to me. So here goes:

It’s a new month, month two in the new year, and I’m never, not ever, nowhere near to close to, where I want to be. I never am. And there’s so much now about anxiety and age and what it means to be a writer, and can I be a famous writer if I’m no longer young or pretty, and what does that have to do with words on the page anyway? (Links below, at yesterday’s Sunday Pleasures post, if you’re not sure what I’m talking about).

I’m old. I will always be old, from this point forth. I will never get any younger. But I will most certainly get better. My bones are brittle as birds’, my synapses sagging from time and weight and the gravity of joy, my ass falls a little more every day, like a slow-motion glass from a hand. The kitchen floor, the bed, the chair, the couch, none of them can hold me up. None of them can hold me.

Tomorrow is a new day. Somewhere it is already tomorrow. Somewhere a girl sits on a hard chair with a cup of coffee / glass of scotch / unsmoked cigarette / bare-born baby / famous novel / quill pen in her hand. Somewhere tomorrow is already gone and there is nothing left but memory and the black swirls of leftover words on the page. They sell for cheap because no one wanted them yesterday and they’re crumbling and there are new words now, words that are shinier and newer and that come with beautiful wrapping and gorgeous descriptions. Decadent. Luscious. Cream-filled.

These are the words that will take all your troubles away, fill your mouth with berry-bursting summer joy, tangle your skin into knots of elbows and knees, jitter your belly with promise. It’s a new month. It’s tomorrow. I will always be this old. Bird bones defy gravity. The glass falls upward, settles into my hand. Every word that crumbles, breaks apart, becomes new. Yesterday is yes. And day. And yes again.

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.

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