Alyson

There was something about when he looked at you and you didn’t feel it. It scared me to not sense it. I didn’t see him until he had been seeing me for some time.

Why does every boy’s drawing of a bird turn into a rooster?

I never knew that necks could be things to dream about. Or things that you want to have them dream about.

I walk alone on the streets of New York City and think constantly about how perfectly parallel this picture is to the one I had imagined in my head for the past two years. I’d seen it but hadn’t felt it, and that was the difference. I hadn’t known that this kind of sentimentality’s immense yet dismal beauty was directly related to the intense pain that travelled along side it. Dreams of sketching in the park stay in the air because I can’t stand to stay by myself. I want to stay here forever. Maybe because I am a masochist. But I swallow the pain so that I can bathe in the joy of being in this new plane of existence with these people whom I would never meet at home.

Things hurt. I think my medicine only works when we are both at home. ♦