throats.to.the.sky throats.to.the.sky

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Alison Miller Barber  An Instagram to accompany a blog which was inspired by an Instagram of 20 years of journals which was this one. ... @true.amb

http://throatstothesky.com/

So what I mean is, I would like to sit beside a (preferably natural) body of water with you, drinking something with preferably no added sugar. I would like to sit still there and appreciate every intentional comma, every stabbing period.
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The next thing I'm going to do is love you, fiercely.

I feel like once we went to a grocery store together. not a grocery store but a market, and the aisles were crowded and I looked like me and you looked like you.
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I feel like once we lounged in my bed on dark grey-blue sheets by Calvin Klein. I feel like we looked at the ceiling a lot and sometimes I tried to puke in the toilet.
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We listened to music, then, through now unfamiliar devices. We loved each other, then, through now unfamiliar devices.
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Colors overturn like a bathtub and I could have sworn we loved each other once. I could have sworn we still do.

It was light in his room today and I saw my hand on his head and his face nudged nicely between my legs. I lined his upper lip and my stomach hollowed and filled in undulating waves.
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I was pale and the room was bright. The sheets were tidy and his body was strong.
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His arms are sunny and tattooed and hard. He's more familiar every day. He is less intriguing than he used to be, but only slightly. He is infinitely more endearing.
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After I came, I writhed on his bed. I shoved the crown of my head into his pillow and closed and opened my eyes. He stood and smiled and opened a drawer.
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And after that, he said, "let's lie here, just for a minute," and he directed me under the top blanket. I didn't know how many blankets we were above, but we were beneath only one and it was warm. I tucked my head into the crook of his shoulder and closed my eyes. I closed them for slightly more than a moment.
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--And then I opened them because there is so much to see and I saw primarily his window, white grid, maybe slatted blinds, it's hard to remember, but the stark trees behind it all, the trees and white sky almost jailed, almost the way I've been jailed. I kept thinking, "earlier today the sky was blue. The sun was out, I remember."
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But how beautiful it looked then, like my half frosty bedroom window this morning that I would have taken a picture of had I had the energy. (Sometimes winter never ends.)

The ends of journals culminate like loopy water slides in dizzy, dirty parks. The raw sides of things remind me of you.
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I tromped through the woods today, stomped through the woods today, practically dashed through the woods today, and I thought, "don't look down."
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Now I'm lying on my floor like it's winter. I can barely smell the candle and I think a lightbulb just blew. Nothing is perfect ever, but lately a major thing has felt good.
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(The candle burns like a sweating apricot. It smells like overripe apricots, too. Overripe apricots and dirt.)
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When he's around, every single thing is more alive. I've never loved like a lot of things and I've never loved in a lot of ways but I've never loved like this.
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It's all overripe apricots around here.

The rain slices us like scissors and as it does I remember a shrine you used to have and a notice a band-aid on my knee. I remember shaving my head. I remember shaving his legs.
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I remember when I was too young to hold things, and when I became too old to hold things and when I learned that life isn't compatible with holding things.
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I remember the day I became so sad that I broke wide open, and how good that breaking felt. I remember it fondly still, even though nothing about it was fond.
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Or maybe it was fond, like blowing on yellow dandelions is fond. It was fond like a sunny day in the city. It was confusing but it was fond. It was fond like a palate of paint made for a child and a child painting with it. A beautiful child who is not ours.
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The rain has slowed to a speckle, a peck, and my toes are swinging softly. Life is relatively soft tonight.

I struggle and then I settle into alone. Isn't that refreshing and also isn't that a dream I had, maybe last night? We were in one basement or another. If you touched me, no one felt it.
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Lay me down on that cold, brown floor, the laminate tiles that have surely been replaced. Lay me there and gently move the rolling chair aside.
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I'd like to share space with you. Let's do it for the very first time.

Yesterday, in some bed with soft pillows, we woke up almost entirely apart. (I'd woken up 3-5 hours earlier and silenced a blaring commercial and killed a room's worth of light with one master's switch.)
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When we woke up apart, I inched my way backwards towards you, limb by limb, breath by breath, and you did the same forwards towards me.
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We woke to each other before rising to uneaten chicken tenders, an array of under-appreciated sauces, and two mostly full, warm beers.
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What we remembered was curtailed sex on the balcony.
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What we remembered was buying the beers that we mostly didn't drink.
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What I'd remember later was you carrying your leftover beer into the shower, and what you looked like when you did, how perfectly upright and complete.

The rain has stopped but my driveway doesn't believe it. My driveway is reflecting the shadows of its overhanging trees and I've been reflecting on you.
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All I wanted for years was for you to know I loved you. Your reciprocation was secondary and maybe it still is.
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All I wanted was for you to know that this was real for me, and that I could be true. Now you are are somewhere else, and here I am still trying to prove it.

I'm revisiting my words and yours and realizing that what I really meant was, "Isn't this nice?"
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As candlelight strikes my knee and my left thumb burns from some ambiguous injury, as I don't particularly enjoy this song, what I mean is, "Aren't we free?"
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The clouds tonight are just right. They are shaped like ice cubes that have been dropped into exactly the right drink. They are buoyant and out of reach. It is a wonderful relief that they are out of reach.
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The air is as perfect as it gets, which says a lot because nothing is perfect and air always is. It's time to throw my back against the sofa and exhale and remember dreams. It's time to realize that all times are this time.
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There has been so much to think about and so many reasons to not think.

All I think about, anyway, is sex, isn't it? And by sex I must also mean love. I think about grey sunlight pressing through the slats of someone's winter blinds and feeling grateful.
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I remember dreams about popcorn and dreams six years and two lifetimes old.
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I remember last night when we quietly fell asleep together, you and me not in our place but where we belong.
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I don't remember much outside of my everything, but when I do I feel sad. I feel nothing or sad.
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The first time I climbed his front porch, he said I looked cute. All of the times after that are a snowball, an earth ball. I remember spring with him, and now I remember it with you, too.

The morning of the day we began, I went to see the sunrise. I'd been out the night before but I woke up before dawn. I packed a bottle of water and a granola bar, and I trekked through the river's dark woods.
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There was no sunrise that morning, just leftover flowers and trains.
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That afternoon, I lay on my couch and responded to your post, produced for the masses.
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Later, I raked some leaves.
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I didn't love you then, but it might have been cool if I had. It would have made for a romantic (and ultimately tragic) story had I loved you the moment we met, or before. In reality, I'd entertained simple fantasies of sex with you in inconvenient situations. For a time, I thought maybe I wouldn't like you at all.
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If I were going to write the story of us it would start with a hike on my birthday and I would hop to Halloween. I would skip New Years and at some point in January we would land on a drunk and comfortable lily pad where I said, "Really?" and you said, "Of course."

Well, the pens are dying now. Two by two, they're dying now, and I guess that means I've achieved something. I choose to believe I've achieved something, like last week when I held his head and shuddered, for the 100th and hardest time.
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(I always flail like a fish when I'm with him. I seize like a snowman and release like a fish falling from a frozen thing into a bowl of happy, luke warm water.)
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The pens are dying two by two and I guess I'll toss them into the trashcan, like honeysuckle, like salt. I'll flip them over my shoulders, like who cares. The pens are notches on my bedpost now, but I'll still think of our times. I will.

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