I am sitting in the living room.
No, no... that's not right. The kitchen, then. Yes, the kitchen. I am sitting in the kitchen, and I am drinking tea in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea: with my hands wrapped around the mug the way one would cradle a baby bird that had fallen, head-first, from a tree. And there must be a metaphor there, somewhere, for the ways in which tea-drinking is like living is like falling is like being cradled, but the warmth of the ceramic and the scent of peppermint is too distracting and, at any rate, I'm not much of a thinker and the thought of drinking my tea in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea is causing enough grief as it is. So, I let the steam uncurl under my chin and stare through the window at the magpies in the poplar (all of whom have managed to refrain from falling out of trees) before returning my gaze to the pages spread out on the table, mapping the story of the future of a person I don't yet know and whom I'm very anxious to meet. I hope they drink tea.
0 Comments
I can no longer imagine a time where I'm empty;
a time where our wrists haven't met and your bony fingers aren't fists around my palms, interlocked. We walk, my tongue is tied but yours is sharp, talking in the dark you would say that you're just trying to keep the bad things away. " Looking for vacancies between ribs and thighs and telling white lies you know can calm me down, and they do. Now I still don't feel hollow - I just keep following your footsteps in the night and doing my best not to put up a fight; I try not to let go of your hand as you grow taller but still I'm not shrinking, not yet. My body is filled with spirits and they weigh me down. I am heavier now than I've ever been, with ghosts that won't let themselves be seen. |
Archives
November 2019
|