That Stupid Ache

On mornings when even the internet is quiet, I let ice cubes melt on the tip of my tongue and eat real food, the kind you have to warm in the oven while listening to NPR.

Sometimes I think I’ve met every person on Earth, but their lips moved without sound, and sometimes the air tastes comfortably lonely, like fat people without plans to diet, or college grads who can’t sell themselves in a sentence, or joggers or liars or stoners with trust funds or people whose sheets match their curtains.

Sometimes the day feels like a picture frame, like a motel off the highway whose soap you steal, even though you didn’t stay long enough to take a shower, and stayed up late just watching the stars and the cars and the local news in a different state.

I find myself jealous of chauvinists and religious converts and people who buy scratch off lotto tickets. But really I just want to love without drowning, to run full speed, long distance, for miles,  only to come right back home again.