Dug around, found this from a few years ago. Spring New England, with greening trees and sodden grass, raw hearts abound.

on days like this I look outside and I think ----

the books are playing. the lemon of pink.

I guess I like the way that trees turn black brown as water slides down glass and stops on screen windows. the way that hardly anybody goes outside and those that do hunch down into their jackets and jump along puddles. the way it's silent and coarse and smooth and cool like perfect bedsheets that you slip into at night after a tiring day thinking about what happened today writing things on the inside of your eyelids scratching ideas into the plaster wall next to you. thinking about places kilometers or miles away from nowhere.

downstairs the glow of the sky seeps in through the windows of the door and leaves that lazy haze in the lobby. it's mornings like this when you wake up half-empty but content or full and sleepily alive. at the same time I think about what I've done and the wrongs and all and there's this unearthly mix of emotion blended all up with slow sweet sweet ----