I don’t like the feeling of warm laundry. Having

pruned fingertips can cause me brief paralysis. The tickling of grass blades against my ankles will have me hyper focused on my feet as I walk, sometimes unable to remember to watch where I’m going. A clunky fork can steal my appetite.

Sometimes there is a perpetual shriek that lives

inside me. One that is triggered by the battle of

climbing mountains such as these and more. The

scale of mountain differs, but the effort to climb

them and the feeling I get when I fall remains

constant. I hunger to feel differently than I do. And when that hungry ache feels so consuming I might starve, you come traipsing in from the other room with a smooshed sandwich.

Lunch meat. Cheese - not American because I only like American cheese when it’s on a warm sammy. And sliced bread, pressed evenly with your hand so as to assure every bite has as much consistency possible. A culinary delicacy it is not. The taste of being accommodated and not just tolerated surpasses any star rating, though. The cold glass of milk to accompany my flat sandwich might as well be a bouquet of flowers.

Then you kiss my forehead and tell me I’m beautiful while bread is stuck to the roof of my mouth and I have a milk mustache. Then it kind of starts to feel like those mountains are losing their peaks. Maybe they even look like (shortly-cut) grass covered hills. Maybe I’ll even do some laundry…