Weird vibes lately. Odd, discomfort...a sort of tense, coiled, unsprung torrent of confession? No, not confession. Admittance. Reluctant, but inevitable.

I can't find the words. And it's not me, or Scott. It's him.

He's been writing lately. Posts them where I can see them...and they burn in the scars of the little tear-lines. He always finds a way to discomfit me when I'm at a quiet, sincere, comfortable place.

I'm tired of his haunting, of the way he still sits behind corners and peeks at me, to remind me he's there, in the dark, in the wings.

I know he'll never be on the stage with me again, never again will we stand in the streetlight and look at the tree-branches. Confess dreams and meaning and co-write about the things that we saw together. The things we saw of togetherness in the times we were apart.

I keep thinking I'm fixed, that this jigsaw me is sorted out and showing a nice picture.

I keep forgetting that inherently, a jigsaw will always lie in pieces.

He writes about me in the places she can't see them. He leaves me in the background corners of his life now.

Things could have been so different.

I search, scour my collection of music. Scrambling almost frantically...but everything is quiet. So silent.

And I can't find the right song to sing.


October is almost over. I have a lot of writing to do.



To the morning,

Chels