I forget sometimes that you know how to move your fingers in beautiful ways that I do not understand, I always admired your hands, they are pianist's hands, you could do anything with those hands, especially with guitars and my body.
I sometimes forget that the words I write and the things I do and the people I experience will be good-for-nothing one day. This is liberating but also sad because it devalues experience in some way. Everything is set loose and I can scramble all I want to maintain some uniform, linear existence with everything beautifully tracked and recorded but certain moments will fall between the cracks. Like the beautiful spaces between your long, long fingers.
I feel bad for the books on the bottom shelves of libraries, they are prone to neglect. I took off my shoes and crawled on my knees along two aisles, call number PS, the pattern of cheap carpet imprinted on my red knees looking for forgotten poetry caressing colourful spines
I completed one somersault
then rolled on my back and giggled loudly
slicing the silence
libraries are not sacred, but we pretend they are
A girl looked at me from between two rows
like in some romantic comedy where the prey is watched by a shy predator
subtle, innocent voyeurism
she smiled at me quickly then looked away
I curled into a ball
smiled wide into my fists
muffled loud riotous laughter
I love when the world opens to me briefly and I can hear beautiful music pouring from its every orifice, from the torn up spines of joyful books