Here is something new: 2 random pieces of freewriting. I know not what to do with either, they’re just sort of floating and so in lieu of a full freewrite I present these…. Should either be made into something more cohesive? Here they be:
Sometimes I imagine the things I should have said instead of the things I did say. Sometimes I imagine that I didn’t just ask you about scars but that I asked and asked until you told me what caused the scars. I think I love the corners of rooms more than I love the rooms themselves. Tell me that twelve thirty is time enough. I want to hear the sound of your laugh played backwards at increasing speeds. I wanted to ask you about the way tattoos and scars cross your skin like lines on a map. There has to be a legend that I can read them by. Tell me that twelve thirty will be time enough. I think I love the corners of your mouth and the color of your eyes in dreams which is never quite the right shade. Do I remember you as less perfect and that makes it okay? I read through everything we’ve ever written back and forth to each other and what I come to is this: how much more can I miss you then when I look and even your photograph is gone from beside your name? What lines cross your body? And will there ever be ways to map them all?
Like him by the lake spilling his coffee onto the stones. Stones cold as chips of ice and
the coffee spread out like earthy blood. Lakes and waves pulling us back. That coffee spilling.
The stones drenched. Drenched, always that word, he loved it. The way it felt on his tongue.
The earth was the grounds when the filter fell onto the kitchen tiles, spread out across. Still hot
burning my toes and the mop didn’t get everything. Grains, are they called grains, of coffee
weeks later speckling across the white. Tiny ants or cookie crumbs or garden dirt. Grains. The lake with its lack of sand. Not enough time on these stones and he is spilling his coffee. Startled.
Or clumsy. Or however he was. And the coffee spreads out almost black, almost earth, almost the
color of the sky after all the stars have extinguished themselves, it must stain so much. And the
stones are hot before the waves reclaim them to ice. Chips of ice. The year the fever sent fire up
my skin. Ice melting on my tongue. He’s spilling his coffee and I’m spilling the grounds and the
lake was tiled. Out for miles to see. The tiles catching light. I know that the lake and the stones
and him. He is balancing on a stone. He is spilling his coffee. I know the lake. And him. The waves rush forward to claim the stones.