on a thursday, i use a typewriter for the first time in years. i remember when i was younger, when i marveled at the old typewriter we kept in the garage. i remember when i used to load paper and write stories and novels and epics.
on a thursday, i feel a sense of future. a sense of it’s going to be okay. a sense of today is good. a sense of ‘you are good’.
on a thursday, i find a way out.
i imagined her in a colorfully lit up room, smiling and dancing along to brockhampton with all the other art kids. she’s wearing vintage jeans, tucking her smooth hair behind her ears—which are sparkling from the golden cuffs and dangling earrings—and acting all lighthearted and genuine. she formed into a moving picture in my mind, suddenly morphing into a tangible that i was starting to get lost in. i was drifting into the deep end.
i would love to arrive where you stand in the center of the infinite blushing sea. i would love to climb the corners where your sharp knees meet the softness of your thighs and i would love to sit atop your blue freckled nose just so i could lay down against the slope in bliss and have your aquamarine swimming pools be the only thing i gaze at for the rest of my life.