Run-On: Journal Entry 422
I might have missed you today. Today seems like a good time to do that; to go under the rugs and find whatever we left there. Because the dawn is here, and you aren’t, and the wanting for both of those things to be once again back in the order of the place in which I left them once is real and apparent.
Apparently, the appearance or lack thereof of a you when there was an us is what compelled me to start saving things again — old finger-traced remnants and sketchings and old drawings made up in someone else’s cubicle. We are parents in this love, in love with the lack of what used to be.
This room always smells like you. The walls talk often to each other and they beg for the last left pieces squandered over silly words and a world apart we drifted on.
So, I save. Matchbooks with numbers and dates of times of eateries frequented with hands cold, blocking the snow; cards and receipts with funny notes attached to the back. Your handwriting I hope hasn’t changed.
I call you in my dreams sometimes, just to see what the silence will feel like. I went out and had a beer and for the life of me cannot recall what brought me to Brooklyn at 2 AM besides the longing of the looking that happens when lovers lose whatever locked them in lotus like Lego blocks.
I keep the door unlocked.
In case you change your mind.
Again.
