it is now the year of the snake. reminds me of that time we were walking through the woods and chatting about (i think) john muir’s desk, and we came across a molted snakeskin tangled in a wire fence. i thought, “remember this because it means something.” this was at a point in my life when i’d grown sick of the spoken word. hearing the same superlatives bleated and promises repeated, finding the algorithmic script to every relationship, realizing that the offhanded half-truth holds less value than a lie — well, might as well trust in hidden signs. so this meant something. it meant that a snake had outgrown its own skin, it also meant change, serpentine intentions, and a departure from paradise, and already my imagination had cast this snake into a great drama. of course i communicated none of this to you. you were busy telling me a story i was pretending i hadn’t heard before, because your words didn’t matter, i just liked the sound of your voice. your overly grim tone, the way you flattened out most of your r’s. and then i saw myself as i must be to you: a vague and flimsy shape bound within your narrative. in the end i would just fill a role in a story you would tell to someone else on some other walk in some other timeline. but that was more than okay. because, you could have chosen anyone’s company, but you chose mine. it could have been any sign, but that snake’s skin was mine. our half-truths may be lazily muttered and our memories may hazily fizz and sputter out with time, but we do own them, right? maybe words are worth this, at least. to frame these moments by which we know ourselves, these stories we call our own. so that’s all i’ve got. happy valentine’s day, you curmudgeony jerk. i’ve put you in print, and now you’re mine forever.

and happy valentine’s day to everyone else.