Beach House

I regret this rain I gave you and certainly don’t want it back. I need my floor space, my advice and the attention I bled to mingle in the water of your dissatisfaction. I mean, I need my things back, I need my card board peace of mind and for fuck’s rotten sake, let me let myself go.

Using pots to catch rain water here is long term? Isn’t that lazy? Tellingly uninterested? I think you like this drip of water, like to think you know what’s best for you and have the ability to time travel to keep me forever confused about appearances. Most of the time you’re translucent. I can’t stand all this list making.

You make me sit on the blanket way too long thinking I’m there as long as I’m nearby. But it doesn’t work like that, I need my things around me as much as I need you to stop this time shifting, these appearances, the smell of a summer shower at the beach…

I’m finished spilling these many pots. No more water, no more time traveling, no more blurry intentions. I want you standing next to me, elbow cocked and feet pointed like a duck. It is time. I need to dry.

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