10:27 a.m. - 2008-07-27
Ill.
"Recovery." He said. One word.
He looked down, not at the ground, but lower than my face... Lower than my chest. Yet still above my knees...
My arm, my wrist, my waist, my hips.
I was not sure what he was talking about. I wanted to not be sure.
"Recovery?" I asked. My mind raced.
This happened on the street, late at night. Right next to my car. My keys hanging from my purse, if I shifted my weight I could hear them. Pulling me away from R.
Recovery.
Alone in my bedroom I switched on my little black laptop, I prayed for a distraction. An email. Something. Maybe He would have finaly hit me back. It had been more than a week and a half, maybe two weeks. And it was killing me.
Recovery. I asked to myself.
From what? Food. Metal. Pain. Work. Life. Love.
I have to go for a run. Clear my mind...
