No One Loves Me ...

I wasn’t lost when you stopped

If I could go back to the other night. Before I was drinking wine. Before the music and those memories kept twisting and twining around each other until there was nothing to do but make a necklace with cheap plastic beads to partitian the events and throw it in a drawer with all the other trinkets I never wear. The way I bring up unimportant memories as if you were cherished and relevant.

I don’t regret, you know. Not in the specific way that people do in our generic situation. Or lack of situation. It isn’t that sense of being far away and confused. Like trying to remember dreams or coming back from sleep. These every-morning things that I’m not sure you do. Like closing doors to respect your lover’s sleep and the uncommon courtesy of making good coffee even though you don’t drink it.

Somewhere among these anti-regrets is a day we never spent together. A day we might have imagined in our deepest imaginations. Sub-sub-sub-conscious creation. I never said. And you never thought. And asking is for suckers and the brittle. So we stare at each other with no memories within the strangeness of being unacquainted.

by My Mental Milkcrate

The World's Smallest Postal Service

The World's Smallest Postal Service (WSPS) is a teeny tiny transcription service and roaming post office based in the San Francisco Bay Area and also available online.

The World's Smallest Postal Service

Twenty-five words and counting

There is no way of knowing what this post is about. Where it might lead. All you know for sure are the twenty-five words I have written. This post may end in tears or lift your battered soul. It might be the best thing you have ever read or become the saddest moment in your life. You may wish, with all your heart, that I had never written it.  That you had never found it. Your brain is now trying to second-guess what this post is about. How it might end. If it's even worth the effort to read. Maybe it's a tragedy. Or just a pointless collection of words. But until you read this post in its entirety. You will never know for sure...   I love you.

Window Gazers

LOST: window gazers  northampton england

Dear .

Earlier a woman walked through the gate waiting area with a curling iron. She found an outlet and plugged the damn thing in. I can hardly get through security wearing my glasses and a silver bangle.  But here’s some mad woman in the gate lounge area waving a screaming hot piece of metal. Well, I don’t know if she was mad. Really. Or even if she got the thing hot. Or how hot it may or may not get. But I do know that a few days ago I tried to fly to Minneapolis Saint Paul International airport from the tiniest least complicated airport in the entire world and ended up in Detroit, Michigan instead. So, what I’m saying is . . . anything is possible.

Your

Imogen.

by imogen

Polaroid Love: lost

Uncategorized

In capital black biro letters on my left foot it says RIGHT. And on the right, LEFT. Put your best foot forward. As if we’re not confused enough.

Everything is suspended again, least of all, lastly, my shirt on the line and a checkered tea towel caught in the branches of the birch tree, stolen, dug up in the dead of one night with a trowel and ten split fingernails.

Counting down the weeks and days backwards. Exploring the roof of your mouth with no torch, not sure which way the right way up, meeting teeth and tongue barriers in the bottomless topless dark.

And a bloody trace of determined weak nails between the serrations of rib cage, from when we were angry or I was restless, flattened under a close suffocating ceiling. Or maybe just bored, or dreaming.

by goddamn right

Garden Chair

FOUND: garden chair northampton england

3191, A Year of Mornings

3191, A Year of Mornings began on January 1, 2007 as an almost daily photo conversation, in blog form, between two friends that live 3191 miles apart.

3191, A Year of Mornings

Dear.

There's a letter to you in my drafts folder. It rambles endlessly about my relationship problems. About desperation. The seething angles sound like I would have been screaming into the walls of my lonely apartment if I hadn't turned myself into text. Raging like a mad woman. It oozes bottles of red wine. And insecurity. In it, I ask you whether you think that being with someone should be this hard. And admit that I feel completely unlovable. You would have known what to say. I can't recognize myself in the words. Now. Can't imagine how that life sustained itself. For so long. How I became in those sick days so much less than human. I leave it there. Unfinished and never reaching you. I don't want to go back. In a time when I didn't have a name. In a world where you still had two feet.

Your

Imogen.

by imogen

Polaroid Love: coin operated laundry

This is what I whisper against your neck in the middle of the night

I don't like to talk about loving you. I can't break it into crumbs and lick it from my fingers. And even if I could, it wouldn't taste as good as watching your hands slice celery for stir fry.

by My Mental Milkcrate

Metro

by pandemian

Rails

by imogen

I Never Wroted

An ode to your little toe, and all those other things I never oded for fear of your scrupulous eye finding out the cracks in my creative foundations, the faultlines in my fictions, and discovering that what you are reading here is in fact (not?) yourself, ill-disguised and painted purple with sweeps of alliteration and pointillistic fragmented letters of your name in capitals where they should not be.

See I guess I always thoughted and maybe at times still thinkit that you are possibly the most complicated person I have ever met, like the knottiest knot in a three mile stretch of string or those four page equations I chose English Literature for never having to unravel… I guess what I am trying to say is that the knottier the knot in a three mile stretch of string, the greater the sense of achievement after unpicking. (I am not sure I want to unentwine you, however, and leave you straightened out but crinkly.)

There is letter space for the elevators of my nightmares and the common at your doorstep and the violet colour you stole from the garden, and possibly even your little toe and the hardened honey on the shelf, but mind the cracks, the paragraph breaks in which the you from the bit before morphs into a you which might be my father or even Dodo the Budgie.

(I would write you an ode but I am not the most poetic of people and you would laugh and then run away very quickly. Perhaps once I have reinvented myself as Philippa, the Pip of the neon fishnet stocking, of never saying never maybe I guess, the Pip of the carrot stick and the Pip who says no to the curdled butter, the Pip of the hidden musical talent and authorial genius, the brashest Pip in the apple core…)

by goddamn right

Blue Trolley

FOUND: blue trolley northampton england