Toilet phone call

He called his girlfriend from the bathroom at a friend's house.

Not because he needed privacy.

Because if she heard some sound that didn't match his story — she'd know.

His girlfriend berates him. Insults him.

Not a story from before.

He brought up Corinthians. Love is patient, love is kind.

Who has he assigned grace to?

A single viewfinder, and it's pointed at her.

My heart breaks for him.

The same viewfinder, pointed at whoever it is we've decided to call love.

If you think about how much we berate ourselves, a healthier version of us would feel entitled to end that relationship.

No true wisdom can only be external.

Tiny grasses

Maybe all the tiny grasses from the roadside in Kansas and Colorado.

The flowers you pressed in a book in California — they aren't for later.

They're for the glowing now. The now that refused to pick them later.

The stinging nettle is connected to the freshly dyed yarn. You released some of it in other states. Some of it lives here now, in the Amazon, in a home that feels cleaner than the one you left.

The plant remnants are like the strands of your own hair you keep. Oddly enough. And toss into the air wherever you are, because both of your parents said the birds would use them.

Water grass

Decent neighbors

I talked with a neighbor who pulled out of his driveway about 5 times. Then he came back in.

I noticed.

There is something about neighbors. Who know your comings and goings. Your friends out last summer. Your project, how did it go?

People who remember what changes have happened to your front door. People being decent, slightly-interested, right there.

The neighborhood scene is the ultimate anti-apocalypse.

Who else notices?

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