I see you through his eyes,
and they open, shut, open, shut, open - there you are. Hands folded around the ceramic, and your lips curled up in a half-smile at the sober scents of lavender and old books. When you've tumbled into the bushes and emerged, scuffed-shoe and scraped-knee, he still sees Whyte Ave coffee shops and rose-coloured walls, toe-tapping. I wonder how it is that even when his eyes are closed he sees you, trying to bury yourself in layers of wool and smoke, but never succeeding. I can hear you in your words, Northern Alberta ink that rages war against the pages, a rogue match, blazing. I see you how he sees you, a fawn in a meadow of poppies and pollen, but I can hear your belly rumble with the hunger of riots and rampage.
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The mind can wander here, so it does,
as if it needed permission to let itself become distracted, lazy. Time doesn't stop - it's amplified. The perpetual busyness and bustle is different, but it's here, too, and it pushes against the edges and forces itself onto the shores like any productive corporate core. Mindless chitter-chatter and mating calls compete for airspace. Both my fingertips and the air: lilac: the pleasurable scent and familiar feeling of numbness, the wind against my back. There is rain spitting against the windows, punctuating
the quiet murmurings, page-turnings, and pencil-chewings... the sound stress makes in the aftermath of sleepless nights, where studying and sex and speculation replaced snoring and all left you feeling inadequate and unprepared. |
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November 2019
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