pumpkin carving.

De-gucking the Pumpkin.
make friends with East Coast girls: they're the best at fall activities and they know all the different names of plaids (black watch vs. royal stuart vs. buffalo check).

(photos) on film with Pentax K1000 | Amherst, Massachusetts. this feels like a lifetime ago (p.s.) one more
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two for | Summer Sights

(photos) on film with Pentax K1000 | Golden Gardens in Seattle, WA

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time isn't kind or unkind.

I saw you on the street, two-thousand miles from where we'd known each other. For the first time, since I'd stood on the curb of Mississippi Ave. and watched as you started your truck. It was packed with exactly one half of the things from our apartment. There was rain, but not any anger or sadness. Just a dissolving, as you went on to your next dream.

Then in Portland, Oregon .... here, in Portland, Maine.  The odds of it all.

Maybe I was just shell shocked, but it didn't feel like you. I knew it was. Undeniably. But you were just familiar, not the same. Almost like a brother of the man I loved.

I've seen you though, in other people. There was a line-cook who worked with me at the brewery, about the age you were when I met you. Just a kid, really, but handsome as all get-out. He'd give a soft murmur of appreciation on the days I'd done it up.  Once or twice he'd worn a Bukowski t-shirt to work, and I couldn't help but laugh. Bukowski, huh? I thought of you and the copies of Kerouac that sat on your nightstand.  

He'll be a heartbreaker. Not deliberately, not carelessly. But in the way you were -- just available enough for the women you love to cover the space between you. Open enough for a girl like me to try to patch the holes.

Anytime he caught my eyes over the stainless steel shelving, I felt my breath catch out of habit. A teenage feeling, about you more than anything. But when you were finally in front of me, the real you, I didn't feel the way I'd expected. The person I loved was somewhere, 3 years and four states ago. He'd left me, and our tiny apartment, with a beat poet book on the passenger seat.

(photo) on film with Pentax K1000 | gulls in Portland, ME | title in reference to this song
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on sleeping next to someone.

"are you bad at sharing the bed?" I said
"no, well ... I don't think so."
"okay." I said, and crawled under the covers. He rolled onto his back and left his arm across the pillow and I tucked into the space.

In the morning our feet found each other. He slipped his arm under me, in the the dip just beneath my rib cage, and pulled me into him. He kissed my shoulder. It was sweet and good, the warmth of him there. It was too comfortable to be about us. I found myself in the quiet routine of two people who'd had more than a night.

It was practiced, it was right.
I could feel who'd ever been there before.

He asked me how he'd slept, and earnestly then, what makes a man bad at sharing the bed. I told him inexperience. 

I once ended things with a man I liked very much, and what it came down to was the bed. All night he'd moved me around, just trying his best to do the thing he was supposed to do but never actually sleeping. He wanted to, but he didn't know how. He'd never gone to sleep next to someone night after night, for years. 

At twenty seven, we've had time to live out entire little lives with the people who we've loved. Multiple of them, even. I had one in Portland. I had one in Massachusetts. And they ended. But I know now, I know how to sleep next to someone and what to do in those morning hours when two people flicker between sleeping and waking.

I want a man who has learned how to hold a women, before he gets to me. 
Even if it's only for a few hours. 
A man who can make it feel like love. 
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