and somehow, it was enough

i don’t recognize faces

i couldn’t tell if the man who 

took me home last night was you

or someone else entirely

but i thought that i recognized you,

felt you in the way he gripped me

a little too tightly for comfort

i don’t recognize faces

it started when i was barely more

than a child, barely a person

and you struck for the first time

lesions in my occipital lobe,

a handicap that i underestimated,

thinking that at least i knew

who, exactly, you were

i don’t recognize faces

and it had been so long the second time, ages

since i heard your voice

i forgot you, but my body did not.

by the time you touched my heart

it was too late to avoid another

-making the facial expression your character’s making and trying to describe it

-writing entire scenes in your head as you shower and not remembering most of it by the time you get to your computer

-deciding you can’t do something you’ve been looking forward to until you write what you told yourself you were going to write, resulting in you laying in your bed doing nothing

-having two completely different ideas for your story to go in and both seem equally good but you can’t do both and you also can’t choose

-having docs with stories you know you’ll never finish but not deleting them anyway, even if they’re only a couple sentences long

-getting random bursts of productivity that could go towards homework or cleaning your room or writing and you know you’ll only be able to do one

-getting inspiration from the most random things

-writing at inopportune times because a perfect line or dialogue just popped into your head and you have to get it down before you forget it

-“what are you writing?” “……..a story”

- “what do you want to do when you grow up?” “uunnghnnggguughhhhh”

and how we fell from it and slept as we plummeted and burned