‘Til Kingdom Come.

i work at a shoe store now. my feet are hard and sore, and only comforted by my lover’s kisses. i worry about fantastic and things tonight : like car crashes, sudden death of children. my heart won’t settle. maybe because i am alone for the first time in weeks. i’m heavily considering buying yogurt at a korean deli about 500 steps away from the apartment because being still is overwhelming. even the idea writing, or acknowledging that i have semi-substantial thoughts anymore, seems exhausting and a thing the speed of my life tells me that i should grow out of. nights like this, i suppose, are why this part of me still partially exists. it is reserved for and resorted to in a very specific instances where i have ten thousand small things and four or five great big things that inch their way out of my fingers. stopping and starting. sputtering like an old, red push mower.

my sister and her girlfriend shriek with laughter next door. i am not used to feeling so genuinely happy for someone.

adam dreamt two nights ago that we laid on his bed in Connecticut and i was pregnant. when i asked him to describe the dream, he said we just laid there, smiling as he ran his hand around my gigantic belly. he seldom remembers his dreams. this is what i will think about when i fall asleep alone tonight.

i don’t feel young or beautiful yet this summer. i need some sunlight, or at least a day to get lost. i find manhattan wears on me most when i have somewhere to be. which is always.

i cry about alex, still. sometimes i worry that i’m scaring adam so i’ll wait until he sleeps. months ago i decided to get the tattoo, but i keep fighting myself on what i want it to say. truthfully, i need a full day to sit down and picture it, picture him. i know it will come to me. but there never seems to be a full day to sit around and think about your dead. half of time you’ll be face down on the mattress.

the women who shop in my store are open books and the pages are boring if not blank. this is a generalization, of course. but, for the most part, i hate every rich housewife who has just spent an hour at the gym/tanning bed, who waltzes into the store in their tiny black yoga pants and already weighed down by shopping bags, who complains to me that the black Prada heels at home in their closet just don’t support the way it used to. . .
Maybe their arches have gotten higher?
Well, now that I mention it, they have been taking some dance classes in rotation with spinning.
Maybe that’s the cause?
Hm. No matter, bring them a size thirty-seven and thirty-eight in these six shoes.
And would I be a dear and grab a water from the Food Emporium next door? 
They’re simply parched.

i am losing sight of my goals because i am working too hard to make money. i struggle with working so hard at something i care so little about. when the day is over, i have nothing to show for it, except a battered body and a few more dollars. it doesn’t always feel worth it to me. but maybe i am just accustomed to being poor. 

and in a perfect world

a miracle would happen.

the days will pass. and this summer will show itself to be the best in years.