Friday, April 29, 2011

the good kind.

The whirring hum of a plane overhead and muffled music through the wall. We've got the windows closed and golden light from small bulbs. I toe the thin line, skim the tip along the surface to ripple cold water outwards.

In that moment, I almost decided to let go. A cause to collapse into ruin. A song with an echo. A solitary woman with a hand too full.

I think you lie to me. And to yourself, perhaps.

Maybe I'm becoming the unknown. I close my eyes I dream of you I count the numbers on my fingers with furrowed brow. My muse, my awkwardness, my cut-off sleeves. Not everything is splendid. I twirl my hair and hours pass. Twisting the ring around my middle finger, then distracted to clean shit out from under my nails while the cat shakes his tail and rubs his face on the corner of the bookshelf.

I will not write anything about you. I will write the aforementioned statement ad infinitum to give you space to breathe. You can tell me when to stop.

I want your words upon me, please gently shield my frame. The cat jams his face into my leg. I loiter on the corner, pause to debate the cleanliness of the post I am about to lean into and shrug.

You were my age when you moved to the city. Your quiet corner crafted the web that catches us to hold our faces to the stars, the sun, the blinding light from which we cannot look away. You are a willow.

I am a bitch.


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