She's not here. She told me not to write and well maybe I wasn't going to write anyway. I think she'll be okay, anyway. The sand will scour the expression from my face and I'll feel like the biggest secret at least in the room. She told me not to write and well maybe I won't because I'm not here either. Maybe our mothers wouldn't have gotten along and I'd've had to choose and I would have chose you but expect a lot of crying after.

Specifically not to write, she's not worried of my voice because my voice is independent but the writing stands atop perceived romantic insecurities. In speech moments live and they pass look there just went two of them. Written writing moments sullenly defend the rivulets of pondering hiding behind them. A movie set mock-up of a life painted already peeling at the edges.

Flowers drying upside-down.

Because it's unfair. They had a plan, I had a plan, you had a plan, plans are falling like cherry blossoms and I never liked cherries but I eat them now if they're on other things I do like.

I don't speak the language there but I can learn a language for you. And not a tongue language but an art language or a music language or a living one. I'll try not to mention dreams I promise.

Does the tyranny of democracy mean the Earth spins the same direction even though we all want different directions? Crammed in a limo and we want different radio stations when the driver is behind glass and he remembers we didn't tip him last time?

I'm angry and I'm ready but if I were really ready then I wouldn't flee from teachers. I'm trying to hide infinity underneath my mattress and I almost got the corner but I can't get any more. If everybody's leaving sooner than I meant to be alone but I've been sitting on this suitcase and it's empty as my tomb.

Maybe she's right.