My phone skills deteriorate further.

I lie on my bed with the reciever pressed to my ear and watch the clouds move. There is a big grey one stuck behind a snowy white one. They are doing a cloud dance. It looks like they are trying to escape each other. The wind blows them both at the same speed, and they stay stuck together. Thunderstorm cloud, and what could almost be airplane trails gathered together in a pillow-shaped cloud-box.

Daily phone calls are no substitute for tangled up arms and legs, cheek kisses, mouth kisses, those looks thrown and caught across a room full of people.

I mainly listen, say mhm in the gaps. When I try to say something longer than two sentences strung together I forget what the point is meant to be, and trail off.

I fell asleep before the call, cheek pressed into bare arm. Elliot Smith drifted through the room, and now it plays as a soundtrack to our phone call.

Drink up baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do
You won’t but you might.

This is a non-day. I don’t hide it very well. My voice sounds small and unexcited to my own ears.