it can be thought. it can be dreamt. it can be beautiful.

Tomatoes and salt.
Fast-moving smoke.
The smell of roses. How I can't hate roses just because they're popular because of how much I love their fragrance.

The flickering light struggling to be whole through the bowing leaves and branches of a beech tree.
How the leaves of the maple tree always dry up quickly, leaving its own leaves the colors of the next season, a promise late in fulfillment.

A dab of the finger on the tongue, a sweep across the ceramic of the plate, the taste of sugar.

How I loved the colors I chose for my bedroom walls when I was fifteen because I liked blues, and how I love them now because they remind me of the ocean. How I used to imagine the texture pattern of paint on the walls as trees and clouds.

The soft and shaken mewing of the cat, still hiding in his favorite spot amidst the stacks of hay.

The happy soreness of my thighs after a long night of dancing. The satisfaction of having done so much to produce so much sweat.

The fact that every pair of lips that have even brushed up against mine, are bigger than mine. The fact that I can only remember what kissing feels like by remembering what I've felt everywhere else, in me and around me, during each kiss.

The images in my head of what my body would look like had I taken dance lessons instead of violin lessons from the age of nine. The visions I have of leaps, pirouettes, arabesques--the power I feel from imagining this, from imagining the power my body could produce in dancing like that.

Decisions. Defeat. Who I'll kiss next.

How much bigger the city will be than me. How much bigger most things are than me.

How I grin when I think that if F. Scott Fitzgerald lived in the present and listened to our music, his favorite band would probably have been The National. Or would that be Hemingway's favorite band? Not sure about Steinbeck's, but I know he would love "Dust Bowl Dance" by Mumford & Sons.

Pointed toes and turn-outs. Lines and technique. The sky is less blue and more gray, thick. This fire is near.

If they ever do a contemporary remake of "Tender is the Night," even though I'm not blonde, I would love to play Rosemary.

Wood grain. I love that pattern.

How I wish my hair was curlier. My breasts smaller, my hips wider. How I wish there was a way I could change how I looked to that. I'd keep everything else. Except the clothes; I'd have to switch out a lot of my old wardrobe to a new one. Oh dear.

How whenever I used to be so upset that I'd just sit on the floor in the middle of an empty house and cry, my dog would immediately walk over and start licking the tears off of my face. I still miss him to pieces.

The satisfying popping noise I get from cracking the toes on my right foot.

How I love my petite hands and feet. Don't know why, just do.

Dead skin. Hangnails.

More smoke. I'm a little worried.

This Will Destroy You, by This Will Destroy You.

How tired I am and get of my family. How much I love them.

Every piece of clothing I've ever had has almost immediately, ableit slowly, started unraveling somewhere soon after being purchased or worn for the first time.

I want boots.

I want Nancy Sinatra to be a lyrical role model for me. "Bang Bang" is definitely a good start.

I don't care if a lot of my favorite things--books, shoes, necklaces, etc.--become worn out. Wearing is a sign of love. Which must be why my mother seemingly had more gray hairs when I saw her at my graduation than the last time I'd seen her.

How I hope my dad doesn't get too lonely when my brother goes back to school and I eventually leave for another timezone.

Movements around a tree trunk.

I feel empathy in droves when provoked. I can't help it anymore. I could never rule or fight wars.

I have so much I want to do, and a great deal of that stuff I want to do before I turn thirty.

When I'm really happy, I get the widest grin that makes my face look so stupid. Don't care.

I'm falling back...back into bed? Back into where? I don't know, that just came out.