i saw miss polly, singing with some girls and i cried “strap me to the mast!”

 

i’d like to think that there’s someone writing a love poem on the wall of a subway tunnel in silver crayon, right now. that a little boy is sitting on an overturned whiskey barrel, holding his father’s spur up to the sun, counting the broken tines. his feet are kicking against the barrel, and he’s waiting for his daddy to come home. that if you wanted to, you could hear me breathe through this screen, hear the tiny music coming from these headphones. i’d like to think that the digital will mean as much as the flesh, that blood can speak in keystrokes.

i’m tired of thinking.

i’d rather believe.

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