Rusty.

I'm taking a moment, a brief relapse, to purge the words. My skull is like a rusty little typewriter in the shadows, tapping black keys. I'm taking a break from memorizing literary terms and breaking down the human cell until there's nothing left but a thousand little electrons buzzing around a tightly bound nucleus. The past few days have been rushed, in a word. 

I keep thinking about a beautiful baby girl, my best friend's little sister gave birth to the most amazing spirit. Her name is Lilleigh. I held her a few short hours after she emerged into the cool air. I brushed the pads of my fingers over her fontanels, feeling the grooves where bones folded into skin. I wept, staring into her gray eyes, watching her, watching me. She looks so much like her mother.

My calves are sore from organizing the spice cabinet in a new, yellow kitchen. My mouth felt strange for the expanse of about three hours, I said the word dad, out loud. To him, in the flesh. It was so strange. It really was. 

My eyes are tired from staring at this back lit-screen in coffee shops with aromas of nostalgia. I'm having a hard time finding time to write, and read. I want to read so badly, I walked into a bookstore and was compelled to buy new books but could only manage the first thirteen pages of the lyrical script before I had to set it aside and picked up a heavier, denser leaf with a thousand more prickly veins and a wider stem. This semester is killing me, and I'm afraid I may have packed on too much, but I crave the knowledge. I crave the avalanche. My books and I have a paradoxical relationship. I have fallen in love with every one of my classes. My creative writing class, especially. I wish I could make time to write. This morning I made linden flowers tea, I held honey by the ankles and let it bleed down onto a dusty teabag. I let white petals loll around the vacancies of my cheeks, I let steam warm my fingerprints. I'm hungry for boredom.