God doesn't exploit, and he doesn't lie.

I'm not impressed by you
up in my mind
I like you better
You don't

get that tone
snip in those words
or stare at the floor when I am in front of you
pin my arms behind

I walked up Queen Anne
scratches not yet scabbed

nails scraped over
like the way

you said those words
that ran over my exterior
I flinched
and pretended I didn't hear the sound
or feel the way
it dug in deep

Tell me,
are those sweet words
You say
accompanied by
bitter aftertaste
the salt circling around in your mouth

My puppy ducks down
when I reach to pet
And I'm jerking away
earlier than Jasmine

Let me say
I almost know now
that He doesn't lie
when He says
Please be mine

It's raining and I'm hiding again.

I'm at Irwin's for the last time.

Irwin's is where I always go to write in Seattle. It's a coffee shop stuck in the midst of residential houses at the UW. It's earthy and looks like a cottage inside-yellow plaster, victorian style sage green woodwork.
And the baristas are all eerily drop dead gorgeous. One looks like Norah Jones.
(I try not to creep when I sit in my wicker chair with my latte-but no matter how hard I try I end up wondering what she likes to do when she is not baking blueberry muffins, what kind of things run across her mind when she bikes home in the rain.)
She has long dark hair with red streaks on the back of her ponytail, olive skin and thick, clean cut arched brows with two piercings on the end.
I don't know what it is about her-maybe it's the delicate silver leaves she wears dangling from her ears, or the fact that she looks so unnecessarily angry while brewing coffee, contrary to her soft features, that intrigues me.

I aspire to be a girl like that. That sounds shallow, but I think there is something to be said about mystery. For me, that is the beauty of women. Of course, most women always end up not being as interesting or as beautiful as the curve of their waist makes them out to be-it seems as if all they really care about is having a good time on Friday night or that their BFF told Sam about such and such. But I like to hope there are depths to them.

Bur really, I like Irwin's because no one I know knows about it. I have lots of havens, like that. It's my own secret.
It's weird to think I will not be back here soon.
Maybe I'll scrawl something out hidden in Wallingford in a few years-but for now-I have to go.

I need to learn to let go.