Feeling: foolish
Listening to: Cranberries, "When You're Gone"... oh, the irony
Reading/Watching: movieline... oh, and Mike: KEVIN SMITH SUCKS.

It was very odd: I picked up a warm-weather shirt I haven't worn since October. It still smelled of Harry. The thought both saddens and repels me.

It's always going to be like this, isn't it? Going through my desk drawer, coming across the picture of him bent over his guitar, bare shoulders hugging its curves. The one I couldn't bear to tear up. There are times I still feel his fingerprints on my skin. Months of Quincy could not erase that feeling. And I realized that's what he was: my attempt to erase something, scribble over it so I couldn't read it anymore. But now? That ink has bled away. The carved letters beneath remain.

Only thinking of where I will be in ten years, and where Harry will probably be, keeps me from pining. To share my visual, watch the last half of Riding in Cars With Boys, where Drew Barrymore goes to her ex-husband's trailer home to get his signature for publishing her novel. Yeah. I can see that happening, easily. It's not even cruel or unfair of me to envision it.

I hate how fabric holds on so tightly to scents. My ancient suede jacket, worn to a club for a few hours, will stink of smoke for a week afterward. Perhaps it's time to do some laundry. Heavy on the Mountain Breeze Tide.

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