by sophie

this time of year i want to ride on trains and watch the colors and cities and still wild country moving by. ten years ago, i used to take long greyhound bus trips, eleven hours from one shell of home to the other, smoked pot at every rest stop, fell asleep once and woke and couldn’t remember  which city i was heading to. so much blur and sleep and smoke in a coat that i refused to get rid of, a long tan herringbone with torn sleeves and a burn mark on the right pocket from cupping a cigarette carelessly.

i miss layers and rivers and seeing my breath in the air.

dreamt last night of my ex-fiancee and his new fiancee and an imaginary blue rundown house with a raised garden in a weird raised rusty structure and woke thinking of the half-steampunk half-hippie dreamer world in pittsburgh i never quite could belong to sober. i do miss the wolf dog and the house full of cracks with chickens in the garden. i do miss that house we had near the river with neighbors always screaming and the stuff we collected that had been smashed on train tracks, all the weird threads and feathers. i miss it but i’d never go back there. i turned out to be a white walls kind of girl.

boston next week. thank god.

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