You ask me, why are you so sad? On the phone, and I can tell you don't want to listen. I hang up wordlessly before you can but my sobs stream so loudly that I know you can still hear them. The short answer is that when it is silent, and sunny outside, and four walls surround me, when I am alone and disconnected, a great weight appears upon my shoulders, setting forth apparitions before my eyes. Transgressions, inadequacies, what you call my freak-outs, my mother crying in her sleep, a figure on its knees, pound the outside of my iris until I let them in. So I don't stay inside. I take buses and ride the routes for hours, hoping to feel your love again through the purple sunsets.

Anyways tomorrow will bring more hope. I can't be alone. And not being alone doesn't mean having Joni Mitchell in the background. It means having your face to hold in my hands. But not even really that. I don't know. I have no goddamn idea.

The guy that I'm seeing has reacted to the news that I actually updated with an "Ugh. Everything you write is just a warped version of our relationship." I guess, first of all, this is a clear case of "You're so vain/you probably think this song is about you."

Secondly, I just want to clarify that everything I write is fiction. As in no, I did not spike anybody's coffee with acid. While I have definitely felt every emotion, mood and tone I describe, I believe that everyone in the world has along with me. The events that are associated with them are fictitious, although some really are based in some remote sense off of real-life occurrences. A few are more blunt: like the two hippie lesbian girls at the restaurant. And the red car.

I hope to start writing more because I have the wonderful opportunity to join the creative writing department at Berkeley, meaning that I need to write or fail basically.

I wish you could know how good holding you feels. In any darkness when I bury my face into your back I'm really rooting myself into your body so that you can never go away even if you tried. I'm planting an oak tree on your torso and building myself a nest in its branches so that I can organically live with you.

And I feel foolish writing about how much I love you. Sometimes I get so angry with you that I scream and push and in those moments your pain flows into my skin and inflames my mouth even more. You shouldn't let me hurt you. You should feel my love every millisecond that you breathe. Yet while I am writing you are laughing somewhere else with someone else and your thoughts are galaxies away from my figure, clinging to my blankets for any warmth, pretending you were here to fall asleep and wake up to. That is why I feel foolish.

It's still part of the little bundle of secrets that I store behind my eyes, so deep that I can't even see them. But they're there and they plunge out like waterfalls when I'm driving away from you. They spill out onto the roads and get trampled by passing deer. I see the deer, and I wonder how you'd react, your eyes wide, pointing. Shh, stop, you'd say. And we'd sit in the darkness inside our metal capsule, sipping our tea and thinking of the pillows that wait miles ahead. And when the deer are finished devouring I start my engine and you fall asleep next to me and I stop again and kiss you on the nose.