indigo half shell
sea moist silver gleams inside
until dusk conceals
. . .
The journals are filled with a shit ton of crappy poetry, like the above. I went back to them thinking there would be a linear story to follow, that there would be a prose explanation for everything we did. But the dusty books are filled with scraps of paper, napkins, receipts, on which I scribbled random notes and lines. None of which are particularly good or sensical.
I wrote this little haiku in the first days of our flirtation. It makes me realize how disjointed the affair made my mind from the get go, how it dislocated my reality from its socket and left me with these frayed tendons of thought.