My dear, but if I make the pearly gates I'll do my best to make a drawing

Two and a half years ago, I drew a sketch of a poster of words from "The Trapeze Swinger" I eventually wanted to make when I had time and supplies. Thanks to graduation and my brother's old prismacolor markers, I have a new poster.

now you're lit up by the city

this is how i start everything; i’m apprehensive. it’s been more than a month and my thoughts come slow, slow.

i don’t always say things with the intensity that i mean them. i tell stories better face-to-face; in real life, i’ve got my hands and my eyebrows to move around when the right words are lost somewhere down in my knees, afraid to be pulled up into my heart or even my stomach.

but this is a story. all i can write is my thoughts so sink your eyes into the words and then, face-to-screen-to-screen-to-face, maybe we’ll connect.

that’s how we did it. for some of us, it started with riese’s words. all of us voyeurs, we saw our thoughts staring us in the face more beautifully than we could have ever thought them. i read people as much as books and here were both wrapped up together.

it was words and words and words and then an explosion.

there was that part at the beginning where all my nerves were racing around—and not just in my head, my whole body was feeling it. at first i felt little, like i’d have to shout to be seen. but instead, we just settled into ourselves. unseen sparks of something sinking in, my skin was tingling like laughing or like drinking, which we did a lot.

between the incredible chaos, i liked when we walked back to our hotel and didn’t say anything, because breathing is nice sometimes, too.

with alcohol on your side, who can say what’s true? the weekend was quick and so sweet and it wasn’t real life. but here’s the best part: it was real life. every second actually happened.

then the morning came and we woke up anticipating instant nostalgia but instead were filled with a different emptiness. it doesn’t make sense to mourn a beginning. i’m finding out where my holes are and realizing that what we’re making is easing the hollow feeling.

the trapeze swinger

i heard from someone you're still pretty

do you remember when we used to talk? we’d sit in that empty parking lot and roll the windows down and let the dew from the night collect on our skin, making us shiver even in the warmth. we were exploring because we wanted to feel infinite. but then, we were so safe in our little beds—anything could be shut out if it got too big or too scary. every time, we would stretch the clock to the last minute then rush you back to your house and hope we made it in time. you remind me of home.

remember how we used to sit around for hours and hours, and how your mum worried, and how we just laughed?

and then when things got thick. i was trying to figure it out and it was summer. the heat boiled everything out of me until i was one tiny core of fury. i got so angry with you and i pushed away because you didn’t pull at me. were you afraid or did i just want you to be? i’m good at imagining thoughts into places where they don’t exist. and remember when i made you cry? maybe i was right.

i hope that you remember me [happily]. sometimes i catch glimpses of things that remind me of you, but not often. it doesn’t make me sad that i don’t think of you, but when i do, it’s warm.

now i’m 500 miles from home but blankets are still impenetrable armor for sleeping. you hear a sound in the night, in the dark, and pull the covers up over your head, knowing that if something really is coming after you, somehow you’ll be safe, small, invisible. and maybe you’ll remember our stolen ideas, hidden deep and uncovered later, when you know you won’t get caught.

i just want to be comfortable. wrapped up but free.

i’ve got manners that i’ve smuggled away and memories that aren’t quite right but i rest on them.