this is my 100th post in this new place.
your hands plunge 100 stories down into somewhere, maybe my heart, maybe my throat, maybe my canal-like veins. it’s like Venice out here, dirty and old and romantic. and full of water. what things carry water?
your eyes, when you try not to cry.
i like it when you try not to cry. i feel like i’m looking in a mirror, except your tears are falling out of MY eyes.