2002-02-12 || 9:39 a.m.

|| address written in michael's handwriting ||

i am imagining it as wool scarves with ghosty smells and cold cold cement, hot breath visible as clouds and laughing very hard under covers with the lights out. new comics and books and music and bridges and watching you make your bed while sitting on caramel-y swirly carpet in the corner. sitting in the sink while you cut the back of my hair because it's gotten awful scruffy (i will use this as an excuse to study you in the mirror. make out the parts of you that weren't there the last time i saw you, that have formed completely independently from me. freckles and scars and laughlines and something else. something distinctly deciduous and northwestern.).

i am imagining it as how it used to be, at least a bit, with large batches of hot chocolate and one by one by one aligned on couches, laughing talking pushing feet out across wood floors and carpet. and you the reluctant entertainer in the middle of it all, play acting, all surly and defensive, all hand motions and magic tricks, laughing into your collar and shirt sleeves.

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