The day is in its infancy, I can hear crickets outside my bedroom window.
It’s morning, and it feels as though a thousand hands have dropped their fingers like a comb from the ceiling to the floor. Bottles, boxes, cans and one black bag are sprawled across the hardwood.
A creamy moth twitches and throws gusts of air as a pin head spider harasses it and then retreats.
The lighting was strange. The sky ahead was an uninterrupted blue, but above casted over so that all objects of the daytime had a night base color about them. The evening idled, and one ovular cloud resembled a thumbprint.
The afternoon matched an exhale, a seamless breeze, a subtle car on the street. Windows stretched like jaws to the ceiling. The silence of a moving fan. The rustling of a raspy recording, breaking and building and breaking in the background.
It was a silent walk back to campus. My mind fostered conversation starters but my lips never parted. Not to ask you if my break in judgment had been pleasurable, or safe, or worth it. Only for an awkward goodbye.
Somewhere a wind chime was mumbling.
It was mother’s day five years ago when I came to you on your bitrthday. You laid on the couch with a cat at your ankles and a phone in your lap. Your hair was wet and it hung in loose curl clippings round your skull.
My nerves were like a clock whose hands are stuck - the second hand twitching.
There is a man standing at the edge of the sailboat pond. With a pole, he nudges the sailboats that get stuck. He is dressed in white like god and our good intentions.
It’s near closing. There’s the sip of weak coffee that’s been sitting in the warmer for hours. A mix of stories and filler talk dangles and there’s an innate sizzling, bubbling thick over the conversation.
A dim light flickers over a table in an empty restautrant. I pour my tired body over it, draped across the wood grain. The sugars sway while the salt and pepper embrace in a close waltz.