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9:58 p.m. - May 02, 2002
Stalagtites, stalactites, it's all the same
I want to go back to that house and those rose bushes and the tree I'd climb and perch on the bough and where he'd see me and he'd watch me as I watched him. The first time had something to do with the tree, I think I cut my hand on the old nail and he brought me into his screen porch that had a squeaky, hollow metal-framed door that sounds like every other porch door and it was cool there, I remember the cool under my feet and I remember the sound of the door and I remember his face and his Pac Man and I want to run my hands across that tree if it still stands and chop it down, I want to sit in my old closet in my old room in that old house and I want to look directly at him and I want someone to hold my hand and that hurts, because I don't know anyone well enough to feel safe holding hands with and it is not comforting to think there are people in spirit next to me because I need to feel hands all around me, that's what I want but like with everything else in this world one must stand alone and be strong and I'm not there yet so must wait, perhaps that's what I've been doing all this time, waiting until I can go back but I feel I've waited so long already that my feet are limestone and my blood calcium and I will be a stalagtite tomorrow and only my eyes will see what I've avoided.

 

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