You asked me once...

You asked me once what it was like in my head. This is the first line of a poem I started heading up I-5 home again. Birds in the trees. Low sun over the valley's hills. You asked me once what it was like in my head, and this isn't the poem, but this is what's it's like.

I drum the edge of the laptop to Coldplay that has randomly come onto iTunes. My love sings along next to me, absent-mindley. She is doing her own work, too. I like the acoustic guitar.

I also like you. I've been thinking of you all day, off and on, around and about. Fingernails tapping on the laptop again. It seemed somehow appropriate today: the dark grey, the rain pouring down without warning.

I still haven't checked my bank balance. I don't have job prospects for January. I ignore these facts-falsities-facts and imagine other houses, other days, other conversations.

I think I'm starting to censor myself.