puddle jumping through my journal entries from three months ago. i do not remember what it felt like. a hollow sort of love that never felt hollow until after: ''everything you do is beautiful.'' sunny autumn bike rides and sunday afternoons and radiohead. treeleaf eyes. hand in sweaty hand with all the manipulation and the putting me at his disposal and loving his weed and his band and his cat more. and all the other terrible things. what strikes me the most is that in nearly 6 months i only ever took one photograph of him, and you can't see his face.

he gave me context. i am free.