Quarter Life Crisis

Twenty three years of knowing how each thing happens around me: the check comes tomorrow; in a few weeks the leaves will quarrel with the trees and leave in an argument of color, bringing the Summer to her grass-stained knees. And everywhere around me is the skunked smell of defeat at the hands of what I’m doing contrasted with who I should be. The crosswords mumble missing vowels because there’s no secrets in this town – there’s only soft omissions. Now I lose things from my life with such startling precision that I never have anything new to say when they ask me what I am doing – I’m pursuing a quiet, raining place where your face wakes me every morning.


~ by perfectionatrix on September 19, 2012.

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