11.19

I'm making baked potatoes in the oven. I remember the first time I did this for you; you were so amazed that such a thing was possible. This time, you're not here. I am growing to hate all my memories of you because they are all individual notes of a dirge that started long ago and only now has built to its pernicious climax. No emotional swell of orchestra and organ can go on for this long. I can't stand it! My heart will stop! And yet I listen on, because I must. I've bought a ticket to this concert and I will stay. My potatoes will probably be exquisite, but they'll turn to ash in my mouth as the terrible chords crash around me, shaking me, drowning me.

I miss you.