to the girl with the lilac tree aura and the silky black hair —
i’d write you grand things, but the pencil moving across the page is meant for small joys and records of time and slowly slipping sanity. i have grand stories of girls sliding knives up their sleeves, of wars won and lost. i have stories they’ve written epics about. we can hear them from someone else.
but i bet nobody else can tell you of orange peels curled in bowls, or the right way to eat eggs or to bake bread ( i’ll annotate recipes like nobody else does ) or the crazy fucking storm in my head, that’ll lay down and curl up like a cat, it’ll let you stroke it like a fucking cat in front of a fireplace on a cold night because i want someone to hold me, dammit.
and if you’ll listen to my common tales about dogs and butterflies and curling orange peels, and learn the right way to eat an eggs, and read my crazy sprawling notes in the margins of recipes, you’re stroking the crazy storm cat and wrapping a blanket around our shoulders
and you make me feel warm enough to ask you whether you’d like to make cookies with me or listen to another tale, this one about my failings at making origami cranes,
or if next time you want to meet my cats or dance in the rain, because we think of the same song when the downpour hits, and i like sitting with you here, in the sun.
would you like some more lemonade? i think we have some more inside. the bread’s almost done. it looks like it’s going to rain, and the cats need to be held for a while. would you like to come in?
