friskin

So this is what it feels like. Half the time was spent, and half of it was spent talking about politics. It's sort of funny where your mind takes you, "I can't wait to tell soandso suchandsuch," and, "I wonder if this is what it feels like," and, "Batti batti o bel Masetto." Funny the things you'll forget, like to use shampoo in the morning, or to stop by the office, or that sometimes it's so much easier to make messes and not clean them up. The way you both hate everything makes you that much more perfect for eachother. Quasielectric glances between quasilovers. He gives her marks so they all know. Marks on papers he didn't read, marks on news he didn't hear. Waiting to see if he will show his name, she grows weary, eyes drooping, head dropping, elbow supporting what is left of her heavy, supersaturated brain. She lets all the tasks she's left undone flow one by one through her, each tensing and twisting each muscle in her body.

Today I had his song stuck in my head. Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor? Tonight I learned that cancer of the stomach has taken his life. My dad told me. The last thing he said after giving me the facts was, "He took care of a lot of children." *Cries*

Andrew is home until Sunday. The world seems to have ceased to exist, and all I want is to cuddle and talk and laugh and kiss and sleep forever.