part 1 of 2

the thick olfactory ache of half-bloomed jasmine hangs in the air. it reminds me of some point, years and years ago now, back at my mother's house. the beginning of summer. every day i have an odd, unplaceable nostalgia, but by the time i get to the bus stop, it's gone.
i dreamt of you last night. i was handing you jars of plum sauce or wholegrain mustard, about 6 or 7 of them. (you still haven't solidified, your form is still out of my depth of field though you stand beside me, looking down.) my arms twitched involuntarily and a mustard jar slipped out of my hand. i woke up before it smashed.

i'm already up to 3. i have plumbed some of the darkest caves in my memory before 2:40 in the afternoon on a monday. my shoulders are tense, my hearing shuts off as i drift into daydream.

i state independence, for the first time in my life.