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.
THINGS THAT ARE SAVING MY LIFE:
- Emails from friends. Their dings and texts keep my chin on the ledge, where it's safe and dry.
- This blog. Forever pining over the same boy. Forever fucked up over him for months on end. Isn't my heart tired?
- Watching Girls. Getting lost in the weirdness and romance that is Adam. When Hannah FaceTimes Adam, even though they're broken up, and he sees her ticks, OCD mannerisms, and generally not doing well, he immediately drops what he's doing. He runs to her apartment barefoot and shirtless across the dirty streets of NYC just to get to her. He breaks down her front door, finds her in bed, hiding, and picks her up in his arms...saving her in every way. MOST ROMANTIC SCENE EVER.
- Music. In bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling, out the window...adrift in song after song. Making playlists. Looking up song chords to see if I can strum a few on my guitar. Getting lost in the poetry of lyrics.
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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.
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Selfless—The Strokes