nothing gets crossed out

Yesterday, may have been the perfect day. I woke up in my own bed, which is refreshing when you've been in a guest bedroom in the Hamptons all week and awake to the sounds of children squealing. I had an everything bagel and an iced hazelnut latte before I went to Katie's apartment to lay out on the roof with her and Kristin. We read magazines, books, gossiped, remembered, and soaked in the last few rays of the summer sun.

When we came back in, Elliott made us margaritas and Kristin made guacamole to munch on before we headed to see Beach House and Grizzly Bear. Well, the line to the free show was just too long, so we opted for plan B, go to church. Although missing two of my favorite bands seems like a damper, I didn't really mind. I was just happy that I had two friends with me who weren't as excited to go as I was, but went because I wanted them to.

After church we wondered over to Marlow and Sons for dinner. And on the way, we passed by the restaurant Dressler. There, dining at a table on the sidewalk with his wife, piercing me with his killer blue eyes, was Sondre Lerche. He is one of my music loves, probably second only to Sufjan. We made eye contact and that made me unbelievably happy.

Dinner at Marlow was delightful. I've heard about this restaurant from Amanda and the Walkers, but the actual experience can't be put into words. We ordered family style and shared all of the following: cheese plate, meat plate, watermelon salad, grilled corn (favorite), baked chicken (another favorite), meatball pasta, pork belly, two bottles of chilled red wine, and chocolate caramel tart for dessert. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed such a wonderful meal as much as I enjoyed the company. Afterward, we all walked home.

On a different note, I started writing poetry again. After digging out old journals that I hadn't put a pen to in three years, I came up with this:

It's the harrowed nightenmare of the bee-bat-beetle
that buzz flap creeping up your spine
when the sheets are folded back.
Hair down. Bra off.
Listen carefully and you will hear every girls biggest fear come to life
The monster thought of dying alone,
of being a screwed up spinster--never screwed.
It's the formula of wanting to be wanted as much as I want you
at work when I'm lying in my twin size bed
making an X marks the spot with my body.
The beebuzzsaw cracks open my ribs, exposing my heart-
messy fucked up unattractive red swamp.
Rip open you shirt and I'll stamp WANTED on your chest
What about my unshaven legs, back pimples, design-less cotton underwear?
My morning breath, hammocks of flesh beneath my eyes, snot face, and cold feet?
All hidden. All artfully concealed.
Want me when I'm photographic paper in a dark room-
dripping, exposed, becoming myself.
Want me at my worst.