Your soul slips out sometimes

Your soul slips out sometimes:

The Specter, Alabama

It just remembers somehow.

That it never had to remember.

That it knew like a whisper from a waking-dream

That sits, flash-baked into your memory,

The party guest that refused to leave.

Like a little kid running away to home,

Sprinting toward its Specter.
Like that, your soul slips out sometimes.

It ran in front of my car one day and stopped and

stared at me with LCD eyes into me and past,

(I swear to God I was blinded, then);

I swerved and missed my exit and

Skidded onto the one I was looking for all along.

We've been contracted, you see,

To build a bed for the world to

Rest its tired eyes and dream.

To create, perhaps, a softer world.

So let's strip our coats of armor off and

Run forever to our Specter,

Shouting at the top of our lungs

That we're alive and we goddamn love it.

I promise we'll never look back.

“Bottle your regrets and throw them out to sea.”

The wind's howling really hard outside and I wish you were here with me. I love you so much.

Hey you.

It feels good to have my mouth back up to the tin can.

I'm seriously so glad that we can communicate now: I was terrified of not being able to know what was going on over there. I'm so glad you're safe and happy.

Your post made me swoon. A lot. I'm REALLY excited to have TV cuddle times with you again, including Garden State, and maybe we can watch Across the Universe again together sometime? You can show me a movie for once!

Thank you for writing, and thank you for caring. Every word means the whole world to me, for real.

Something about airplanes makes me miss you, too. It makes you want a cuddle-buddy, or at least someone to escape with. May you always be my cuddly escape buddy.

Always and forever.