Monday, February 27, 2017

The T-Shirt You Left at My House That Meant Something to You Having to Do With Your Best Friend, or, Cum Rag for My New Lover

Today it is snowing, and my room smells like marjoram which, if you are unfamiliar, could be described as a mix of cedar and citrus and camphor. The window is cracked open, slightly, because I love the feeling of inhaling cold air mixed with this scent. It spreads my lungs open. Makes me feel clean. Open. Limitless.

I am.

Conversations in dark bars about Alfred Kubin and theater and history all the while seeing into each other for once. You have become someone unafraid of your history and that, in itself, is beautiful.

You are.

There is a romance in hearing what we have learned from each other.  In being able to meet each other's eyes before you leave to return to Spain for the last time.

Although the powder has long since been wiped off of your face and replaced by a diligent reader's expression, you will still always have a flair that I recognize.

It is, after all, that of a dandied chimney sweep with eyes as lost as they are penetrating.

be well; be loved,


(image via santgazi tumblr)

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