rue magazine featuring bash, please 'workstead'
oh that grey couch, and so many jars! i'm collecting bottles and jars now, i'm collecting each day.
so close to our new home, and so far away. other-side-of-the-country away.
we keep buying, bits and pieces, a sieve from the market, old maps. i'm not sure, what it all means. it will mean something someday.
meal plans and pink tulips at 8 am, the way you keep looking at me, gooey-eyes.
somehow i end up above it all, above the trees and above the blooms and blossoms.
i remember i do, but it's also slipping. remember that morning, with the light? and we we're sweating on the bus, sweating on the pier. where does it all go, the yester-years. the wakings up and the things we never said. or i never said.
it's always the light.
