a letter

pages are torn out. loose leaves. they flutter to the ground like wings without bodies. they were stories. what was. what is no more. but they are stories nonetheless.

the book is empty not knowing yet how to be replenished. not knowing yet how to be. forgetting to trust that it all comes as it should.

i’m in a hurry to write, to meet, to document. to make the history that would prove me not lonely. but that’s not how it works now is it? patience is gifted, not earned with white knuckles gripping the wheel in traffic.

hurry up to get there.
hurry up to not be alone.
hurry up to face time and silence.

the pages are blank.
and although it is beautifully lonely
it leaves me not knowing where or how to start again.

thrifted kicks and grins-1

i should write every day. these words i found with no date. one month? two months old? i can’t quite remember. fitting though, for me to find them this day. this day i begin a letter.

To the man in the big white truck,
it’s 82 degrees before the sun even rises. everyone knows the heat makes texans a little crazy in the head. and yet there you are, in my rearview mirror at 7:30am. my four cylinder with the AC blasting just can’t go fast enough for your stress. and for that i apologize even though i shouldn’t, but dude… you’re driving dangerously close to me and my son. me, the ten year old car in the slow lane trying to get up this hill. you are flexing your muscle, honking your horn.

i recognize your anger. i hear it even with my windows rolled up. the speed limit is simply not fast enough for you today. you shout and your coffee breath fogs up your window with spit as it flies from your lips.

would you call me a cunt if we were to meet face to face? i doubt you would have the balls. i doubt you would know what to do with a woman like me.

i have most likely never sat around a campfire with someone like you. you, i will not judge beyond this car, this morning, this word of power. are you the product of this stressful life? a product of a father figure, or simply a product of this  society crammed into cubicles devoid of human contact… forgetting what is decent and kind?

there’s one thing i am sure of, in this so called loneliness: i’m glad i’m not going home to you.