Prosey Ramblings of an Angsty 20-something

Sometimes when you're talking I focus on your mouth until the lines of your lips are sewn together by a trail of dashed ink with the instructions "cut here." 

I want to write a novel. I want to write seven novels. But I know there isn't enough coffee in the world, nor cool pillows. 

They are always amused that I take my coffee black, that I can handle my curry, and that Newports are my brand of choice. 

Who is "they" anyway? 

I think we discussed this in my philosophy lecture, but I was far more entrenched in discerning the gender of my androgynous professor. 

I don't know how to tell the man that I love that I am withering away inside. 

What are we made of? 

It has to be more than biological goop. 

I want to be a cedar toy chest and pad my cracks with confetti. 

I have never been picked up by a tornado, but if I should, I would like it to be of discarded "he loves me not" petals and the sand in the shade of the beach that is wintry in July.