Personal Algorithms of Living With an Artist

We all develop these little habits and patterns like circles worn in rugs that we always follow. It's waking up to writing on the wall and rings of empty mugs around the entire table.

Eventually you get used to notes you can't read and poetry written in strewn clothing. You do.

It doesn't come easy.

There are red knuckles and tears that leave bite marks on shirts. Sometimes, when words are spilling like rain, you wonder if it's not enough just to drown in someone, if all oceans dry up eventually, inevitably, no matter how much they consume.

Running in and outside the lines scuffles them up like dust, though. You become a routine in unmarked maps and you become a pair beholding the broken. It's enough.