is it the s.t.n.y. yet?

i allow my afternoon to drift away, having this tepid space to myself
for once.

times like these, rare, are seldom created from nothing, but welcomed with an openness that suggests they should be more often.

the rain, spoken of for morning, completes the condition requisite for the flooding
of your memory to my consciousness.

what the fuck are you saying?

i’m sitting alone on my sofa this afternoon, and i am thinking of you, missing
you, us, possibility, future, candid lust, volleyed desire, and same-time-next-year-worthy love

uh, hello.