to emily
(i feel as if every facet of my brain has shifted into some incomprehensible mess. everything has decayed into something unrenderable. the door keeps opening and slamming as a result of the draft (wind?). it's quite strange if you actually look at it.)
weaving in and out of crowds, restaurant row and the eager indian waiters on 1st Ave. sweaty palms and the saline of heat in the hanging new york air. but see, it's not quite spring, months before the calendars deems the shift in seasons. i'm wearing three layers, that shirt you like and the sweater that's too loose in the back but comes to a handkerchiefed point in the front; i'm also wearing a down jacket you gave me after NOLS. it's not really hot at all, in fact it's dipping below 10 degrees and I keep wearing that sand colored coat mom hates. i keep on tripping over those closed basement doors that lie not-so-flush with the sidewalk, i try to play into my falls as if it's just a figment of my anger, burning into a firey ember causing me to loose my footing. i trip a few more times and skulk off in my reticence. 'exit' wispers the wind, 'run away'.
your hairs are still on the couch and i can't be coalesced into apologizing for myself yet again. i wonder if you think i look ugly, because i know sometimes you do.