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/

I almost set a pincher bug on fire, if that is his real name.
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I almost set him on fire before I moved to my porch swing and inadvertently elbowed a spiderweb. It's the time of year to dust off the porch swing, to gradually, unsuddenly, quickly make that change. It's time to trade the streetlight for the wind chimes and to wonder at a slightly different section of sky.
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I could list, easily, all of the things I've done in late springs of the past, because I think and I plan and I write things down. Without thinking, because I don't feel like it now, I can only promise I've loved and lost, hard. That I've breathed and bent and felt and taken. That I've used and squandered and valued time.

Happy anniversary to you, to us, to that first time you slid your fingers inside my shorts and I said, "Let's wait until next week."
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Happy anniversary to that tree and its leaves. "Hey there," telephone pole. "Thank you," wind.
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Happy anniversary to everything changes and life is fluid and you on my living room floor. It was fun back then and now it's nice. It's been all kinds of things in between.

And then there was that time that you fell asleep before me and you snored lightly while you held my hand. There was that time that I drank wine from a plain, round glass, which I shortly thereafter broke, and watched sitcoms that you think are not good, that I think are not as good as you.
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There was that time that I watched where my sheets hit your skin and l looked at it like a horizon bordering the ocean and I wondered at it just as much.
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There was that time that I pulled the sheet down, sort of disrupted things while also ducking beneath them, trying to keep them calm.
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There was that time that you were the ocean and I was just a diver, or a fish.

My passions play in ink pots. They sit as separate colors and I dip into them, some nights. I look at my limited palate and I dip into them.
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And I feel like it'd be honest to say that right now, and for some time, I've had red, yellow, purple, and green. For a short while I had blue.
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I have all encompassing love, love's true definition even when there isn't one. It's dreams for decades and a story as old as, and outside of, time.

I am satisfied and satiated and thrilled like purple. He is forever inside of now.
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I have the sun, and the very warmest touch. All things coming are mine.
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Green sounds like crickets, looks like leaves, and feels like sweat. I am nothing without him. Without him I wouldn't be.

Last night I dreamt that you came to me, moved yourself on top of me, and told me she was abusive. I remember those weird things that happen in dreams, like being concerned that my dad might walk in, like being in an unfamiliar room that was mine.
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When you started to kiss me I thought, "This is it. This is what I haven't had in so long and I might never have again so I need to feel all of this." I remember, more vividly than anything else in the dream, being surprised that your lips were chapped.
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I might interpret that as a reminder that we aren't as bound as I think we are, and that you are flawed, but your chapped lips weren't distasteful to me. Instead, I felt joy that you were so real, so truly present, with me.

My journal says that one day in 199-something or the early 2000s, we made plans to go to a bar that we'd decided would be our bar. We were going to discuss our relationship. My journal says we never made it out of your apartment. It says after some discussion, we decided that we wouldn't speak for 30 days, and we'd decide what to do with things after that.
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You might already know that because you were there, or you might not, because I was there also and I didn't. I only sort of know it now.
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You probably don't know, anymore than I do, that after our talk I went to our bar alone. I ordered drinks and I came to the realization, maybe for the first time, that what we had was bigger than anything I'd experienced, including, but not limited to, the (now unknown) situation in which I'd given head behind that very bar.

And anyway, it's nice to lie on your back on an extra large rock and call out opinions while staring at a white/grey sky silhouetted with caterpillar munched leaves and soft white flowers, thinking about acorns, as I did, as I've done.

Two things happened yesterday. One was that a tree fell in the forest. It fell in the forest and it made a sound like a shuffling of leaves, like a GREAT shuffling of leaves, so that I turned around and saw it CRASH. I saw it fall through branches and leafy trust fall arms. It fell swiftly but not quickly and she came outside directly after. She came outside and said, "Holy shit," and I said, "That's what I said."
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The second thing that happened yesterday was that you put your hand on my shoulder. My shoulder was bare, due to a tee shirt I cut liberally years or more ago, and your hand landed on it fully and unintentionally.
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You'd been holding my hand for hours and later you'd kiss me everywhere but that hand on my shoulder was a tree falling in the forest. It was me looking for the breaking point, the crack, before realizing that the whole damn thing was beautifully uprooted.

The last time we were together, I lifted my hips to you, for me. I raised my hips and I thought, "I have never been so naked." I thought, "I have never been so pale."
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Your mouth looks good against me and my mouth looks good against you. We've been working well together this way for a while, and I feel it's safe to say that my body responds positively to you and that yours enjoys me.
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I want you now. I suddenly want you now, like we knew I would.
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Nothing stops, not really, least of all you and me.

I'm lying on the rug and it's making my thighs sort of itchy and the itchy is sort of nice. I'm propped up on my elbows and I'm looking through the window and I'm thinking that the sky looks greyer tonight, a nice, deep shade of grey. Elephant grey, I'm thinking, and I'm thinking that my thighs love you, the ones that are feeling, but are mostly undisturbed by, the rug.
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I'm thinking that my elbows love you, and my right shoulder which is crunched, deeply crunched, into itself as I write. My right shoulder loves you, too.
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My feet move and the nightgown that barely covers me loves you, too. It's waiting for your hand to pull it down, to maybe tap my ass on its way out, to wrap around my waist. I'm waiting for your eyes close and for you to sigh, as your hair falls, as it does.
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I inhale and my breath reminds me of you because you've seen me breathe. You know my breath like I know yours and maybe that will become boring but it isn't boring now.

The rain has stopped puddling. It's stopped pooling, and what we have here is a stagnant mirror for a streetlight and a shit ton of symbolic reflections that have been mud for years.
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Everything changes. Why am I holding on to you?
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The trees are waving with leaves (goodbye) and I'm nodding towards the bees and paint chips again. I'm wondering when things became so green.

Looking out over the city or my small part of it, the small part that I can see with my chin on the chilly windowsill, inches from the lead paint chips, dirt, and dead bees. I'm looking at the avenue's cars and blending them into a city in motion, people in motion, maybe even a train.
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In between me and them, a neighbor's out of season lights and sky. Eight and a half stars and a far off plane.

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