Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Last night I walked home in the hour just after sunset, past thatches of dandelions with blooms still mostly held tightly together, gathering wishes from the soil. Scattered among them were a few that have already flowered and fallen, all white puffs in patches. So I guess some of our wishes are ready to be handed to the wind, the softest early ones heading out to colonize ahead of when they're lifted out and scattered by the handful. That feels about right.

My medical professionals have told me that my heart is working too hard lately, which is a conclusion that you could see from space; this is the only way my heart knows how to work. In any case, they assume that this is the cause of the careening my heart has been doing, trying to throw itself straight from my ribcage and out into orbit. I've been measuring it for a week or two now, to see if it is beating harder or faster, if it has picked up a rhythm you could dance to or a new irregularity to add to its uneven thump. As a result I'm building a slow electronic record of life lived at this pace, of building secrets late into the night or walking home in the soft twilight, of long naps on the couch or waking from dreams about drowning or staying for one drink too many talking too fast and laughing too loud. The only conclusions I have so far is that there are no conclusions at all.