she sighs, it's one of those long drawn out ones that calls attention to the person sighing. He raises his eyes from the book and lets them fall on her for a split second. She had something to say-which was never new.  "love," she says, "is probably the loveliest thought." At first he looked as if he had no idea how to respond, running his fingers over the page (words, words, words that mean so much that they are considered classics) before asking her what brought on the sudden sense of romanticism. "Nothing, nothing, I'm just thinking about this whole new stage I've hit." 

for her life used to be about places-songs-words. She was a sensory device that could barely remember what day or what time but could clearly remember his green sweater, how much she loved to curl next to him while he wore that green sweater. His hair in the sunlight, the exit after Monroeville and how the Inner Harbor looked in summer time. She remember shopping malls for her birthday and eternal bus rides to Cincinnati. Now, life was stages, easily marked by little black journals on the bookshelf open for anyone to read. Her unpublished autobiography being updated every god-forsaken-night before bed. With the new year brought on a new stage.

The bed sheets were white-the pillow cases were green and the comforter was brown. It was the ending months of winter and the weekends were welcomed with shouts and toasting and mornings spent sleeping in. Her left cheek was pressed against the green fabric and her hair fell over her eye. The white sheet pulled close to her body, as she looked up at him waiting for him to speak. He never did, just closed his book and set it on the bedside table.  "I never know what to say. But sometimes I feel as though you understand looks and can read into those. Like when I feel uncomfortable and need to leave. I never tell you because you might be into it, ya know? But when you look over-you always ask if I'm ready to leave. I'm thinking I've hit this stage of being comfortably surprised." She went silent, the ten o'clock am sun slipped between the blinds and kissed their tired skin. The cat, Seymour, paced the bottom of the bed crying, his mewing increasing until the man reached down and pulled him up to the top of the bed. Book abandoned-sun ignored-both people pouring attention to the poor beast. He smiled, slightly, running his hands down the cat's back "comfortably surprised?" She didn't smile, she barely raised her head from the pillow. "Completely comfortably surprised."  "We are useless today, just laying around in bed-no plans." "I plan to lay in bed until noon." "Then?" "Then I'll make more plans." He laughed this light chuckle he has, one where it was funny enough to catch his attention. "I can dig it." And she hoped he could, completely and comfortably could dig laying with her in the multicolored over crowded bed.

So while talking on the phone to D. last night I realized (and was semi-told) I really had not posted any of my normal sappy love things I write on my livejournal. And I came to the conclusion that I would be jinxing myself, I'd be jinxing us. But that seemed lame upon examinging it so I gave up the ghost. I wrote this in my  notebook while doing personal econ work on monday with this incredibly clear image in my head. And I still do, actually, but I changed some pieces and  watched House. Seems completely useless to mention that but, boy, do I love House. I figured out who I plan to use as a fashion idol for the coming year (shock and awe?)







Zooey Deschanel! I think she's the cutest thing since well, awhile! The best thing is she's incredibly quirky and yet completely femme. Plus, she and him is probably one of the best female-singer-bands I've heard in quite some time. Which is sayinga great deal because I generally hate the complaining female persona. Also, listening to the Clientele during school after a great big Clash kick can kill a girl. And make her realize who exactly she misses.