Abigail M. Schilling

Things have been really really crazy lately and I don't have the words to say what I want to say. I know, who thought that was possible? So I'm posting stuff from last year.

I wrote this around this time in 2005.

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We reach the gate, out of breath. I laugh again even though I'm breathing so hard it hurts. We scold each other for doing this to our bodies. For running when we don't have the lungs for it; for going out in the cold when we're sick, and we laugh again.

I'm not ready to sleep yet even though people are already starting tomorrow on the Atlantic. You say let's go.

To the Atlantic?

Close enough.

Your name is familiar to me. In the same way people say you know your own hand, I know every serif of your name. I could spell it backwards. Sometimes I do, for fun.

Sometimes I dream, too. Dream about what it would be like to known you years from now when you have a job and a life and a plan. I laugh then too. Not because I don't believe it, but because I can't imagine anything more fun than now.

We reach the ocean. It takes longer because all the good parking spots are taken and you insist that we can find free parking. I was angry. Why would there be free parking if they could charge? You just looked at me indignant and asked me if I had ever played Monopoly.

You have to wear my sweatshirt because you don't know where your jacket is. You think you might have lent it to some girl. I bristle at the thought of her wearing your jacket and I chide myself for being irrational. It's cold out and the water is dark. It's not poetic and still or romantic and wild.

From far away the pier looks so close to the beach and its water. Close enough to touch. But from underneath the pier looks so high up.

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Original post here.