pioneertown.

the sun coming in through the windows at the angle of three weeks difference [the longest i've been away from this space; the longest we've spent together], the room’s bright, new, exciting. i'd forgotten things: the mess, the emptiness, things left out, not here [you, i presume]. i take off my pants and use the toilet; i forget the room again. i remember yours, briefly, but set it aside.

i stumble, move forward, just keep moving: i leave my pants in a crumpled mess on the floor. i open the windows, or maybe i did that before, yes before. it's cold, but not that cold, not for january. i pull the sandwich out of the bag. the silence – well, i put on a record. yes. i will eat to a record, florence + the machine. i bite into my sandwich at the counter. i need a plate. no, music won't do. i go back to my sandwich, bite again. the first song finishes and i pull the needle. i bring my sandwich to the bed [i don't know why the bed] and sleep, plate next to my head.

i wake [too soon, but maybe at the perfect time], i think, think the snarkiest things i've thought in months, and remember feeling good in the morning and the afternoon; g o o o o o d, like that. [you didn't call]. for the first time in months i have voice and i worry it's because i've left you; or worse, that you helped find it. i think things with you, but then you disappear. i hate when you disappear.

you ask me what i mean, i tell you i want to talk, you say you want to go to sleep, i feel – soft inside and tell you i miss you and i want to hear your voice but now am feeling rejected and defensive, so good night. you tell me if i had said that, about the missing and the lonely, you would have called, but good night. i cry. i unpack my suitcase. you should have just called. i cry. i unpack the rest. you should just call. you don't call and i feel –

how quickly a voice can wrap around, entangle that of another. how a few days pressed up against [and entwined with] you and your voice can make a separation painful and a 'clean' closet smell like smoke, and i can feel it: the accumulation of things; for every four items i acquire i lose one: a scarf, an old pair of holy underwear, a book, a set of handmade washcloths. do i have to lose my voice? is it such a small thing?

i try to sleep. it's too early after a nap [you didn't call]. so. i consider bringing a cracker/chip party to the bed [i still don't know why the bed] but bring it to the counter, where i've set up this document for typing, where i eat standing, choosing crackers carefully, and when a thought comes to me i come to the bed, still chewing, and type. i've never done this before. [you didn't call.] this is like a new space to me. like i haven't been living here for months. in twelve hours it’s changed, it’s different than before [fresh, but familiar].

a space, a voice i’m shifting into – a home; a lover.