i’m waiting, you know that i am. calmly waiting to make you my lamb.

I feel like my time is running out. Not in the sense that I will be hit by a bus on my bike and crushed under its wheels in some sort of gory display of “She was much too young, going much too fast, never paying attention and was she even wearing a helmet? Typical college brats” but more like I have been turned on my head and slowly, every thought I ever had, every last bit of me, is leaking out onto the pavement, through the cracks, into the ground where it will be stored until it flows up through the trees and out into the sky into nothing. Percipitation. Maybe if I stand out in the rain for an hour or so, I’ll feel like myself again. Then again, maybe not. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t. What matters more is what I do in the meantime.

Like last night. Last night I was out for a walk and it was warm and foggy and lovely, and really all I wanted to do was have Adam take pictures of me at every landmark, every place I frequent, from the Perks I always go to when I can’t sleep, to the giant paillars I always want to hug in front of the Royal Bank building way down town near the water. I wanted a memorial to me standing in the arches of the sculpture outside the AGNS. I wanted memories and tangible moments where I looked happy in my rubber boots and that same velvet blazer, greening around the shoulders and armpits from age, the one with the ripped pocket that I always wear with my stupid purple scarf. Still Life of a 21 Year Old Rag Doll. Smiling. The smile is the most important part. All the body language is necessary to the equation. I want to see my toes turned in and my hands relaxed at my sides or wide open as if embracing the word. I want to be squinting my eyes and wrinkling my nose and making a silly face, or just grinning and not caring about the gap in my teeth or the zit by my mouth or if my sweater makes me look fat. I want to be reminded I am happy in case I forget. I might forget. I’ve been documenting my life obsessively this semester in case I forget. I live in terror of old age and that blank space where things go when your mind decides you don’t need them anymore, regardless of whether your heart agrees with it or not.

I want to wrap you up, a dozen times in my long purple scarf, and when I unwind you and set you free, I want my whole world to pour out with you, so I will never leave any of it behind. I want you to be my brain. My blind eyes. My deaf ears. My mute tongue. My missing hands. And I will be the heart.