i am stuck with of all our secrets

the problem with travel is the expecation of catching up. you recount your history for friends and strangers, and i find myself stopping short of saying your name

this is the predicament you've left me with

this is why i can't enjoy anything here no matter i take to help

everything feels empty and everything i write feels senseless

we met this musician who asked what i thought of his stuff and i couldn't find the right words, my tongue was thick in my mouth

i couldn't say that it felt like your head against my shoulder, like the first time

i couldn't say that it was like the first touch, the first scent, the first lyric you ever shared

i couldn't say that it felt too personal, like having someone reach into your chest and shred your heart again


personal histories are fascinating and peculiar things