I see: six white buttons lining a professor's blue oxford. A cheap leather jacket, navy suede, cold eyes. Faded cloth, revealing muddled tattoos on a wiry arm. Gleaming zippers in a red pool. Palms encased around a stubble-covered chin. White bricks, exposed, naked.
I hear: rustled papers on a crowded desk. Tales of murders in Vietnam and heroin addicts. Clearing throats, shoveling mucus from the pit of heavy caves. Tapping keys. Sighs from a weary passerby. Candy wrappers whispering.
I feel: Needles creeping into the arch of my foot, numb toes, paralyzed eyes. The birds in the pit of my stomach. Smooth paper against smooth palms. Eyes tracing my jaw line. Cool air from the open glass. Hard tile. Black phantoms in a mirrored room. Warm tea sliding down my throat.
Warm tea. Warm tea.
Cream lathers thirsty taste buds. Visions of crowded oak desks keep entering my mind. Curtains flutter, papers stir, black pens writhe to the edge. To be completely honest, I'm feeling slightly numb, unaware of biting wind. I want to feel a pinprick of reality, "Let's run, Mad. You'll sleep, I'll drive. Up through Rhode Island, don't look back." I want to watch life ooze out of a microscopic hole at the bend of my elbow, where a network of teal veins collect like a series of streams, emptying into a clear, open sea. Fish bones, you know?
Did you smell the musty, warmth from the raditors and the sweet smell of youth which surrounds you? Damp wool coats giving off their body-heat generated airy ribbons of comfort?
ReplyDeleteYour words took me back to my days in college; wrapped up with layers of wool and wonder.
'I see: White bricks, exposed, naked.'
ReplyDeleteProbably my favourite line, I can't really choose. I loved reading this whole post.
Love the chickadee on the teacup. One of my favorite birds. Thanks for sharing.
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