Sneakers and things.

I like to think about all the things the soles of my shoes have seen. All the sunsets and the angels with wings too small to let them fly. I like to think about the stones they've stumbled on and the cars they've been in while I slept, the classes they've been in while I slept, the closets they've been in while I slept. I think about the people they've seen -- the girl across the room in my math class and the boys across the sandwich shop and the woman in line in front of me at the grocery store. I think about all the kisses they've seen and the coffee shops and corners of the mall that I don't go to anymore. I think about the way the soles of my shoes have seen me cry a lot and laugh a lot and forget a lot of things that I don't want to remember anymore.


And I think about all the times the soles of my shoes have seen you. They've noticed the way you breathe, you know? They've noticed the way you sit and the way you move and the way your hair falls. The soles of my shoes would recognize your handwriting anywhere. They've noticed the colors in your eyes, yeah? Yeah. People forget to notice the colors in other people's eyes sometimes, I forget to notice the colors in other people's eyes sometimes, but the soles of my shoes have seen the colors in yours, and they're a fan. (I know because they told me so.)


What I really like to think about is all the things the soles of my shoes will see before I die. All the libraries and more sunsets and angels with wings that are big enough to actually lift them off the ground. More kisses? Yeah, the soles of my shoes will see more kisses. I like to think about the streets of Paris and Rome and Tokyo and the Louvre, like a city of its own. I like to think about all the fire escapes they'll see.


And you. I like to think about looking down the row someday, looking down the pew, and seeing you sitting there again, and how the soles of my shoes will see me looking, and they will see you, and they will love you like I love you, even though we don't seem to come around often enough. But we still love you, the soles of my shoes and I.


Yeah, we still love you, the soles of my shoes and I.


Shipwrecked Medusa.
All my love,
Addy

Blood flow.

You're a little confused lately. You blame things on your zodiac sign. You're still afraid of dogs. You're the last person to hear about anything -- everything. You question your own kissing abilities, because no one has ever tagged you as "bad," and no one has ever tagged you as "good." You aren't making any promises. This has been a long time coming.

You smell like the cold.

When you were younger, you thought everyone thought the same things and that everyone thought them the same way.
And then you got older, the ink on your skin runs deep, and you guffaw at the thought of the world ever coming crashing through your door, even waiting on your porch, but from the look of things, it's already been right through here.

Yeah, then you got older and you realized no one thought the same things, let alone thought them the same way. Wrapping your head around that concept? It wore you out, and you are tired. You're exhausted all the time now.

You meant to take a nap, but instead you went running; it felt good to get your blood flowing. You think about what it would be like if everyone had thought bubbles above their heads like they do in comic books. You think about what it would be like to be illiterate when everyone had thought bubbles above their heads like they do in comic books. You think about illiteracy in general.

You take a lot of pain killers. You know it isn't healthy, but they do their job. 


You've got to learn to sing and to go out on the weekends. 


Your apathy's going to kill you, you know. You've got to learn to trust people. 


Trust me.


"I haven't finished it yet, darling."
All my love,
Addy