Indie Jansons

I’m spinning drunk, spinning dizzy. Picking at hangnails like I can dig my way to you.

That June I cried into new spaces I didn’t know existed.

I dream of you often. You move your hand to my forearm, and I am almost incapacitated in a whirlwind of religious fervor. You are the Notre Dame Cathedral, and I am a hopeless gothic admirer.

It sounds overdosed, but after many internal repetitions, I’ve convinced myself that perhaps if humans stare into one another’s eyes for long enough, we’ll know how long our matters have known one another.

I miss watching you fall out of love with me because then there was you. I miss sobbing on the cold church floor, praying for God to wake up from his nap because then, at least, then there was you. 

When I lie awake in bed at night, I stare at the ceiling and tally how many people I wish I wouldn’t have pushed away, and the answer is too high to count. So I just lie in the midnight, hearing only sobs and church choirs and glass breaking and big bangs and silence.

Maybe angels are real. Or maybe some people are just good, really, really good.

If any term containing the letters l-o-v-e-r has an expiration date, then I do not want anything to do with it.