nat raum

journal (take #6)

dear diary, outside smells like rain & blunts—the vanilla kind. it’s no
match for the forest, where petrichor is really petrichor, but in the
woolen july air this may as well be the same thing. dear diary, i was
born to live in the city but when the fervors grip my body (which is
to say, whatever lives within me that paces restless in the cavity of my
chest) i cannot help but take the wheel of my civic and turn it
northward until i glide under a canopy of broadleafs. and diary, when
rainwater wisps against asphalt on the highway like snakes of smoke, i
cannot help but turn on fleetwood mac and let stevie’s tambourine
take me home.

nat raum is the poet laureate of the void; their corporeal form lives in Baltimore. They’re the author of the abyss is staring back, random access memory, camera indomita, and many others. Find them online at natraum.com or astral projecting inside a Royal Farms.