I'm suddenly feeling the bass line as it matches my lips. My eyes. It's matching my ears as I feel the breeze come through that window. And the rain. Oh yes, the rain. It was pouring into more places than you'd think.

People make mistakes, you know. It's a talent, really. The subconcious lying, the very clear and concise words one feeds on. I just need to be the bulimic. From now on I need to throw them up. Better yet, the anorexic. I don't even want them coming in. I want to starve myself of mistakes.

It was pouring into my eyes and my hair and the arch of my back. And it had a firm grasp on your hand that was (I'm guessing) magnetized to my hip.

I should have purchased a new dictionary. I should have read the goddamn thing and taken you on.

Basically people are fickle. Unimaginable. No where near concrete. I'm basing this all on myself and I will forever be the spot in the sidewalk that is decorated with puppy footprints and initials made by people that are apart by the time I've dried.

But take a walk on me. I'm already in the market of letting the ones I love walk all over me. I'm willing to let you on. I know you're in the grass, though. And that's okay. Most of the time the grass is where everyone needs to end up. Everything pure is headed back there anyway. Red and white checkered picnic blankets in the midst of a green, grassy park. Being barefoot is only worthwhile if you're headed for that sort of softness. If you're going to read a book outside in the sun, there really is no better choice other than, yes, you've got it, the grass.

So I'm going to stay wet sidewalk, and you're going to stay grass.

But there's a dictionary between us, and one day when I'm tired of being walked on, I'm going to reach for it. And then I will become concrete.