Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I have lately found myself fallen into that peculiar twilight between talking and writing, and come out on the losing end. Given most situations I can talk the fuzz off a peach, but when it matters most words fail me, and I look around to realize that I am on the verge of losing something important because my words have run off to the south of France with my common sense.

What I need to learn is to say what I would write, plainly, without relying on the synesthetic magic tricks of my everyday vernacular. Cannot talk about the smell of cucumbers and the burning in my eyeballs twice a day Monday through Friday, can't mention how the base of my spine tingles on reflection like waking up in the midst of a field of softly stinging nettles, because none of this is what is required. Anywhere. Ever. I have painted myself into a corner with all of these feelings, and I am not sure how to talk that paint dry.

I have recently learned, though, that you cannot take back touching with palms, no matter what information surfaces that makes you wish you had kept your vulnerable places to yourself, at least until you knew the nature of the cliff you were standing on the edge of. I walked home in the dark last night from a friendly patio, scaring myself with my own shadow at each step, holding fists in my hands trying to make diamonds out of this touching, but no go. The only real option is to keep walking this path I have started down. The way back has already grown over behind me.