Something Delicate:

   Piano. Drums. His voice. Sunk into the notes like the covers on his bed. I'm dreaming.

I jokingly wrote a personal ad as my twitter tweet the other day.  No one has responded, obviously.  Because the guy that I want is only in my head.  

   There are moments when, I know that I must be losing my mind. When I feel so small and the fear creeps in.  And all I want is for some imaginary guy to swoop in, with his beard and hair bun, and sing me lullabies. Something real.  Something in the way he will move. In the way his voice will wrap around each word. Loud and right on key. Or sweet and delicate, that cradles me with notes and rocks me gently into oblivion.  And I'll never have to wake up. He'll play until my anxiety leaves the room. Until I'm still. His voice will cut through the fear like knives. And I'll make him into reality with how detailed I could be.  Grey suits and Italian boots. Vagabond. Urban Outfitters tee shirts. Indie. Indie. Indie. Hippie. Hair peace.  And I'll be his Hippie Hippie Princess.  I'll never be the one I was in life.

   But he isn't tangible.  And the sun comes up, and I'm alone. And I'll die alone.

  I blame myself. Keep myself so guarded. Like towers not walls. Impenetrable anymore.

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  Gone with the wind. I'm gone. But my feet aren't on the ground. And he'll spin me. Tangles in each others eyes, like veins. Vena Cava. I'm blue and he's red. Beat like hearts on the rib cage, a keyboard of real.  I've got the concept.  Bum Bump, bum bump.   I'll live in my head.
  Keep romance alive, what's that about?

Dream Dream Dream.  Like Everly. But current. All I do is dream.

I'm so see through.

For Awhile:

   Soon after I fell off the face of the earth, I woke up here. With an idea and a dream. Barely breathing, but surviving.   I tell tales tall as cliffs.  But they're real to me.
   I can't talk to you the way I wanted to.  But I'll lead a new song.  A precession of tambourines and pianos. Claps. And guitar. It ain't worth lifting voice without guitar. Acoustic.

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  And I dream of boys with beards and hair buns. In suits and sweater vests, with Pumas and boots. Darling, he'll call me. We should be leaving. Tonight. Stars are calling like matchstick dreams. And I'll fall away into the night sky. We won't have no where to be.  Just telling life.  Holding hands.

Darling I'm tired. We'll sing in a gypsy indie band with shakers and hair peace. With black hats and pea coats. and sleep curled in each other. Tangles.


Our precession will lead us into the night skies. And we will be as tall as cliffs, tired and tangled. But real.

"We Are in the in Between:"

   Existential. Everything is nothing and I'm sunk inside. Sprawled across the thoughts that consume me. Vulnerable. Walking on the edge of the blade that killed me. My emotions. Dead like trees. But not.  Because I feel everything. When the sun rises red red rose and I am alone with only my stupid thoughts and they all revolve around you. And you're keeping it all going. Me. This delicate balance of acting and masking and hiding. But you know me better than anyone. And you know what lies beneath my skin. Crack my ribs wide away.  Expose. Expose the red red heart because it's yours and it always was.  But you'll never notice. Because you're too far gone.
  This problem's gonna last, more than you'll ever see. I'll divide into a million little pieces.  Because my dark has consumed me, body and soul.

   And I know this seems so much like lies. Like a story made up by my fingertips. But I couldn't write unless it were true.  And your lips are softer still. And how I laid in your bed at 3 in the morning because I had no home. But your arms.

  My ship has gone down in sight of land. And I know you're coming in the night like a dream.  Because sleep is the only time you're mine.


Dear Boy:

   The faith in your eyes, and me in your hands, that night in the dark quiet, was the most my life ever meant.


 But now I am the most perfect insomniac. My heart is a machine.

Give Us a Talking To:

   I'm living in a den of thieves.  But they don't steal possessions just glances.  I'm the odd girl out.  I am the one with an accent.  I get told I don't even look like I am from here because of how I dress.  This is what living is.  This is life.  This is the South.  And I'm rummaging for answers in my sleep.  Because I haven't met anyone I can relate to.
   Because like I told Kaiti, we're two owls from the same tree and no one even knows where it sits in the forest.
   But I'm not even trying to complain.  Because it's Heaven here compared to Colorado.  It's breathing and it's moving and it's contagious. And I'm in love with the South, with Little Rock-she's got me high and I didn't even know it.
   I start work on Monday.  And I'm ready, I am.  I'm ready to wow people.  Because as of today, I'm just the ghost in apartment 1204.

   I Just wanted to say hey.  I'm alive.  And busy. But I'm here and the adventure is beginning.