i dreamt i was an actor. the script was in another language and the letters fled my eyes. i hate the easy symbology that floods my subconscious. i wish i was complicated; i would dress myself in cigarette smoke and autumn leaf crackle and i would drift instead of stumble. every couple weeks i quit a new bad habit so i can tell myself these feelings are withdrawal symptoms. twitching hands are progress and relapse is part of recovery. i want to write a book about you but then i would have to let you read it, and things i address to you never come out how i plan them. you tangle my words and afterwards i wonder if they're true or only beautiful, in the way it's beautiful to watch a house catch fire and collapse in on itself as empty spaces are consumed by colour. you're not the first person i've felt this for. you make me want to learn the language of ghosts and trace radio static through your spine and lie beside you like the soft threads that form feathers, but i don't think i can love you. i think i'm trying to sound meaner than i am, because if i hurt you as me, you'll see all the blank spaces around my foundation and try to break my fall. we used to have fires in the backyard and the ashes stuck to us like snow. i don't think i can stand to wash you out of my clothes.