she sits and waits. she's taken in by designs and college rule paper. the way a certain felt tip pen feels in her hand. exciting. it's the same brand she would take from her fathers desk. like a criminal she would draw. scribble. write the mundane. in secret. with stolen tools. copy paper at first. notebook. composition. composite drawings. houses on the shore. always a lighthouse. always a pier. a place she's never seen but knows exists. in a dream. somewhere.

he'd always notice when a pen went missing. she's a lot like him. the good parts she hopes.

there is the need to expand her vocabulary. there's only so many words she knows to describe the way the world works. her travel experience is infantile. and her taste buds are afraid. but she has hope for a late start. gun shoots off. the race. she's got a sense of urgency about her at all times. even when she's stationary. a yankee in spirit. rushed. always rushed. here in the sugar sweet peachheart of the south. she waits for her lover to come home.


once. there was an empty room. once. she cried on the floor for you. once. her heart was broken. and the fragments fell like hail into different parts of her life. once. with acrylic paint. on your back. she was healed. and as you flipped her over onto her back. there was this nervousness.

i looked at those photos today. and every time i look into the bathtub i see the spot of paint that won't come off. and i hope that as long as it stays. that feeling. harboring. waves. on the shore. light shining. beacon. it will stay with me.

but it's just a spot of paint. it's just a spot of paint. it's just a spot. i know all your spots.