the weekend in borgå with the loved ones was bizarre in ways i can never explain. it was all the booze and their unholy smoke. the way he held my hand softly. the way i waited to the very last minute to kiss him just as softly. the way i don't know if i will ever see him again.
my sisters, my brothers, from other mothers, from other worlds - we come together and i am not myself and i am myself more than ever before. on a train on the way home i listened to counting crows and i know there's always a reason if that's what i need, we need. mr jones and my green skirt, me humming in the night and his laughs. the one hour sleep, the sunrise walk we never took. and the way i waited to the last minute.