Threepercent.

When my lungs feel like they're going to die and curl inside themselves like pink lovers, when every street corner is an unfinished poem and every face is an artificial name recorded in leather bound journals, when it feels like someone's sucked all the calcium from the marrow of white bones...I reach for close encounters. They make it all so easy, the broken mending the broken. I know how hard it is- to save someone else when you're just as frail. But they do a damn good job. It's bizarre that claw tubs and his and her sinks and sienna-stacked tea cups make me smile momentarily. That one of the few people that actually understands me is someone that I've never met before, but cried with a hundred times. That I feel most at ease in this sacred place, this public place that feels so private. Monet and creamy potato soup and sticky summer couches, held beneath the covers in t-shirt weather. Warm hands encasing mine makes being erased less noticeable. Makes three percent of my blog posts, meticulously picked at, less noticeable. The whirlwinds, nipping at my skin, they're settling. I'm getting better, or closer to getting better, and I'm burrowing closer to restless legs, cocooning myself into a much sturdier frame. Morning, my favorite time of day, is becoming more bearable. 

Photo Credit: Cig Harvey