you plan to somehow send these letters to people who you once gave your heart.

you are confounded by your want of them.

you consider buying wine, even though you have decided to dry out.

you chain smoke and listen to songs from the forties. you imagine slow dancing with a Boy Who Understands Trains and Maps.

you torture yourself with thoughts of loneliness and despair about money.

nothing is right.

you even get mad at your cat.

and then,

somedays, everything goes ok. your day at work flies by. you read a book that makes you happy/sad, envious/inspired, everythinggood/everythingright.

you drink three cups of lemonade pop and your throat gets angry at you, but you don't care. your pantlegs drag in puddles, but you don't care.

you take off your shoes and find a new hole in the heel of your sock, but you don't care.

you drive home and listen to music that makes you Sing Out Loud Unembarrassed. you grip the steering wheel tightly, skillfully. you convince you are the best driver ever.

you see people kissing on the corner of olive and denny, and you Sing Louder.

you wink at a boy walking down the street while you wait at a stoplight, and he smiles back.

you come into your apartment and your cat rubs against your wet pantleg before trotting out into the night, you take out the trash and don't check the mail looking for a letter you know is not there. you are not bothered that it is not there.

you count Days Until Home and get antsy feet.

you dance in your livingroom to songs from the forties and do not long to be dancing with someone else.

you feel more confident than you felt the night before.

you are glad you are drying out, looking at your dirty apartment and are glad you took an extra day off this week so you can Get Things in Order.

you thrill at Phrases with Capital Letters.

you think about cherry blossoms in oakland.

you think about skittish little zoe cats that only want your love.