1. this is where I eat breakfast.

    this is where I eat breakfast.

  2. scope of chicago

    scope of chicago

  3. I walked through the mist of the daily nighttime drizzle with the city sidewalk sweepers  bearing hoses and brushes, hoping to find a blue mailbox that would take the stamped envelope  carrying the run-off of everything I’m trying to wash away.

  4. I told everyone I would break your heart, but now you’re breaking mine.

  5. notes taken from the skyscrapers:

    1. I miss trees with leaves and grass that actually grows.

    2. I miss the nights with cicadas (not quite, but it’s more comforting than the sound of the el passing below at three in the morning)

    3. I miss all the time that existed for vegan baking, and thrift shopping, and regular reading, and goodbye dinners, and hour long phone calls.

    4. I miss fully stocked fridges and pantries and cupboards.

    5. I miss the sun (because you’re only ever half of the time in the sun when weaving through through building after building).

    6. I miss familiarity. I want to know all the intersections and train lines and short cuts and where the streets don’t smell like sewage and how to go a roundabout way for a more scenic walk and I want to know buildings and their history and how to get from point A to point B.

    7. I miss the sense of ease. I hate forced conversation. stretched with filler questions about studies and the weather and our hometowns and the adjustments we’ve made.

    8. I miss woven fingers and hands running through hair. I miss three am kisses and ramblings in the rain. I miss the unmeasurable amount of love carried in silences. 

    8. I miss you.

  6. When I bought potato peelers and mixing bowls I didn’t realize the cost would leave my pockets so empty. But I still paid, with my last crumpled dollar bills, and was given a receipt that read ‘welcome to adulthood’.

  7.      Everything is sugarcoated in paisley backpacks stuffed with a year’s supply of pens and notebooks and lunch outings to the landmarks you memorized in your childhood. And everything is silver.

         Silver laptops. Silver waterbottles. Silver shower curtain rings. Silver paperclips. Silver wristwatches. It’s easy to get lost in the shimmer of it all. But when you take a moment, the silver in everything reflects bits and pieces of these fleeting moments.

         Heartbroken kisses in the four am showers, the kind where the cliches originated from. ‘Ribs’ on repeat in the evening silences between meals and long car rides. Sunflowers on doorsteps that were meant to replace words, because no one ever wants to believe in goodbyes.

         And when these glimpses of moments are caught in the fading of the sun, they drown with you in the humid summer air. And the only thing everyone wants is to breathe.

  8. I searched for you in the paper cups the homeless held out on street corners and at subway stations hoping that in their collection of pity pennies, somewhere would the coin where you wished for me.

  9. I want as much of you as possible in the few tomorrows that we have left.

  10. your tongue against mine numbed mosquito bites.

About me

catalina.
welcome to my miscellanea.

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