i wonder

i found a note i wrote. a single, narrow page, scrawled with black ink and the love of a heart bleeding with hope. the year before last i wrote it. folded it. slid it into a pocket, behind scrawled pages, behind times and places, in the very back of my diary.

the note smells like leather and youth.

the note, unfound, until now.

it’s a note. written with naivety, behind that rose-coloured glass that makes everything so glorious, behind the romanticism of a single unhinged moment. without fear or worry or confusion. 

i found a note.

up all night

i can talk myself into [and out of] almost anything. in an instant, over time, anywhere, with ease.

it’s bad. it’s good.

it is
what it is.