d.

"won't you come on home? we'll test the flying machine, and we'll go where you want. we'll sail the seven seas. "

Whatever home is, i'm sure it embodies some particular state of being: an old speed of breathing, a sense of unending experimentation, a  forgiveness that makes your hands smell like soil, as if  you were gardening - quite like the breath before a sun-kiss.

I miss the me I was with you, out in the front of the school, with my red scarf tied over my head, helping you with your lines, pretending to be in a play. The me who decide that when i die i'd like to be burned and then buried under a newly planted tree.

So, all there is to say now is -  fuck you. Fuck you and all we've been through, friend. You've been on my mind these past few days. And because of that i am grateful and blessed.

   (my memories of you are memories of being alive. alive with young innocent hope.)

all my love,

mandy