i gave blood and then the escalator was broken and i drank a lot of water but it wasn't nearly enough so i am kind of out of it. i had ice cream, though. when i get it into my head that i want ice cream, that's all i can think about until my want is fulfilled. pathetic.
here is a poem my lovely friend m.w. wrote for me:
i mean who are we to say
there's any harm
in picking flowers from the Bellevue yard?
Or to say it is not beautiful or okay
to ask for things in life. Like letters
from people you love. Or candy canes in Christmas,
thank you notes and goodbyes.
This poem itself is a letter
but it is also a memory of everything
a person can bring with them, and be.
The memories that can't be tossed aside
like magazines next to a hospital bed
where one girl lies on her back
looking up at the ceiling and searching for wonder.
(postscript: i left some flowers for my roomie. she read part of _The City of Falling Angels_ to me. i never did finish that book. a.b.)
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