On picking up.

Cam is aware that her posts have been less frequent,

But so, go her visitors.

That’s fine, she lingers and lurks.

The move is harsh, it strains at the bonds of our fingertips and threatens to crack each joint apart. Red works, I frown a little more each day. Living life unemployed and lying in wait does not rest easily for me. People are coming and going and I am ebbing and flowing from them, never too hard on my mind.

The creeping dissatisfaction sets in- not with Red, but with myself.  Christ, it’s been a year since Paris, the realization chokes me on the hour like a wool scarf that I can’t swipe off. It’s been a year since I wrenched myself from E, thinking I’d come back, pushed myself through the gate and turned my back to The Connection, now only a text away and at the forefront of my mind as of late. Paris is over. Welcome to Portland. The endless days leave me craving optimization. Could I be doing more- touching more, thriving more, reaching out? Could I be fucking to soothe the itch in my body and nerves? I pace around and eye things with a predatory eye. Predatory, but bored. Caged, but loose. I must shake the schedule, I must set my nose to the ground.