2013-05-09 - 9:49 p.m.
home isn't where it used to be
the elapsing miles had lulled me to sleep in the back seat, and when i awakened, the top of my head was nudged up against his thigh. just the tips of his fingers were nestled in my hair, the way you touch a skittish animal.
lately, my face is puffy and sallow in a way that invites speculation about day drinking. my knees bruise against each other in the bed at night. i am not well, and i have not been for some time.
leonard cohen is on the radio, and passing cars kick spray on the wet road. the shyest man i know has his fingers in my hair - only this close, but no closer.
if it were a story, i am sure this would mean something, but at the moment i am too tired to make sense of anything at all.
* * *
reading: names for the sea, by sarah moss.
listening to: my new neighbor, running through a sprightly reel on his mandolin.
working on: cleaning house for company.
in the garden: it's a wonderful mess at the moment - the front yard smells like white clover, and the halfhearted watery fragrance of bearded iris, and honeysuckle drifting in from the side of the road.