Written for you as you while I read a book written for neither of us but somehow as both

When something, metal or hard plastic and cold, presses against you leg, leaving its cool imprint branded on your thigh even after tens of minutes, turning to halves and then hours since it being taken away. The same feeling can be felt with you.

For even after weeks of minutes, turning to months and then years, your imprint around my waist and arms still brand me, chilling my bones as I walk through the days that I defy as lonely, although admitting that would be the first truth I have told myself in months.

I miss your hugs. Although I have only felt them one, twice, three times, but that was enough to know you were something I would carry in my pocket, no matter the size, for as long as the weight would let me, being years, until your written name reminding me that you still had a life worth living convinced me that although pockets fit poems and you fit a poem perfectly, words are really no one’s to own. For even the writer accepts this willingly as he sprawls ink onto the page.

But you were pages of verse that then became an illustration, and I find that harder to let go of than a couple of lines.

So be the poetry with me, you would say, for even though your head dreamt dreams of different views, you loved me, not unlike I had for you. For although I longed for your closeness and yearned for your fingertips to, too, reach for mine, you never had to stay.

And yet.

And I loved you for it. So much that it causes shivers as I think about it, curled into a ball with my bare feet entangled within the cool sheets, for my limbs still feel your vacancy as cold and hard and breath snatching as a freezing shower forced upon you on a lonely February day, due to the lack of warmth in the water heater. It’s synchronicity impeccable to life as it is in moments like this.

Seeds

I’ve never been good with titles.

I’m not going to apologize for it though. The only thing I will apologize for is the sticky “n” button on my keyboard, making all of my names, ames, my an’s, a’s, my notifications, otificatios. The frustrating thing about it is not only the noise that seems to be consistent and much louder than maybe it would of been if I was not sleep deprived, but the rhythm of my typing is off, and that is one of the only reasons I like to write on a computer screen. Instead of “tap, tap, tap, tap,” it is now, “tap, tap, SMACK, tap,”. The loudness of my words matching the loudness of the house around me. Fitting.

I have just recently come home from taking some workshops at WFNB’s WordSpring, which is why I was suddenly filled with the notation of creating this blog. It’s hip. It’s fun. It’s cool. It will make wearing my, “I am not a Blogger”, T-shirt an act of rebellion. I’ve had the idea to do this for a while but never took it any farther than an idea due to my serious condition of procrastination and laziness, but Chris Mackay quickly changed that (about this particular thing anyway).

Chris brought a workshop entitled, “Websites for Writers”, which I honestly only attended because the other option was the part two to a part one, which I had chosen not to go to. At first I was a little intrigued, thinking the workshop would be about websites that help you to improve your writing, or communities in which you can post them. I was wrong, of course, which I discovered when I actually did the thing that writers do most, which was to sit down and read about it. It turned out that what Chris was really doing was teaching us how to use WordPress to promote ourselves as writers, or to just have a place to post our ramblings, prose and poems, so it’s at least out there, out here, for strangers to see. At first I was slightly disappointed, as one usually is when they find out they were wrong, but my curiosity still thrived. I knew the mechanics of making your own website was generally easy, but to have a fellow artist show you just how easy it is? It was inspiring and interesting and exciting, and that was yesterday and now I’m here.

So, where did Rotted Apple come from? I’ve already told you that I’m terrible at titles and ‘ames, so while looking through some photos that would soon become header nominees, I happened upon one that I took of an apple tree in early December with all of it’s apples still securely attached. I had always liked that photo with its layers and subtlety, and so Rotted Apple was born, or planted, so to speak. At first it was Rotten Apple, but sadly that domain was taken, as was Rotten Apples and Rotted Apples, because apparently I am not a very original person.

I’m slightly curious as to what those websites are about though, so I’m going to link them because this could be fun.

…

Update: How immensely disappointing.