you, you, you

I draw a line. Supply a last-ditch goodbye. Desperate promises, smothered in pseudo-bravado. Intentions are: absolute, sincere, feasible. Until the following day, my resolve shakes out like paper confetti.

I still invent tomorrows full of you.


Bill Taylor

16 days since the accident.
16 days since I've walked my dog.
11 days since my surgery.
19 days without you.

I miss my autonomy.

I'm bound to the bed like a sex slave without the sex. I hate the constant contact of beds, sofas, and chairs to my body.

I'm at the mercy of other people's whims and schedules.

Waiting to take a piss. Waiting to be moved. Waiting to stand up. Waiting to eat. Waiting to hurry up to get nowhere but right here on this too-hot bed.

Losing my fucking mind.

My mood dips and yawns.

A string of tiny, compounded inconveniences threatens to detonate my fragile patience over everyone I love.

I hear them talking like I'm something to be managed. A burden to be shuffled and juggled. I know they love me, but it's a horrible feeling nonetheless.




Oh, to be outside.
Oh, to feel the sun on my skin,
and the breeze in my hair.
Oh, to get a message from you....
you, you, you.


Selfless—The Strokes