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all is well when you're not well.


I walked through the bookstore tonight. there's a stationary section in the back near the bathroom, near the orange wall where meri displayed her canvases last year. one pillar held a shelf that had a box filled with greeting cards. the front showed an oversized purple flower moving swiftly into white spaces. i looked underneath the cards and found silver envelopes, about the size of my palm. all the pigments blended well together.

i stood there motionless for a few seconds. the lights hit my skin as the oxygen flowed through the atmosphere, grey and warm like my body in that august night. there were no voices and no bodies anywhere near me. the store was closing soon. this place was empty. this scene could make a memory.

after counting ten cards, i thought about ten people i would write to. there were'nt too many i felt like saying good-bye to. i just wanted to write to one person ten times. you need paper for messages. i noticed there was'nt going to be enough room on the card to convey any and all of my feelings. quiet in person, my conversations become long-winded when written down. my voice trembles through telephone wires, so i knew i would'nt be calling anyone. i'd set my farewells onto paper, like hemingway did, or that boy who commited suicide years ago in the town next to the one where i grew up.

then-movement.
i placed the cards back on the dusty display case and a smile went sliding from left to right. those silver envelopes could never carry their names as proudly as i could. the train cars were waiting now and i did'nt feel like telling people who did'nt care that i would be alright.


so wash it all away.

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