at least if you over-cook a cake the sweet smell eventually is over-powered by the burn. a bunch of yellow tulips are at the foot of the bed. they aren't from you, or any other version of you, but i imagine they could be. scattered. spilled. the petals open too much, too quickly, because of the heat. their eventual decay marks the end of their function.
then an email, a little reply to a little thing i forgot my fingers so quickly typed and shot off into the "maybe you'll read this" abyss of uncertainty and chance. i try not to read too much into it. just a reply, just as quick as my original impluse-driven, get-me-into-trouble-sometimes typing fingertips. too bad the one thing i care about was the content of the reply. too bad an event was suggested, but was an invitation for one, not two.
if asked "how are things" is there really a chance to reply with something that doesn't fit the norm, the expected, the digital form of small talk? too bad your list of things was so small; goes to show how little of me you know now.
and why am i caring to talk about this here? because writers aren't good at knowing how to finish things off, where to close the chapter, when it's time to turn the page. or if a book has become bonfire material only.
so. tell me. was our we actually just half-baked? or would i never adjust to the new taste that time has flavored for you?
