when words, sounds, guttural or otherwise, quiet but essential, surface, buoy up, how does their underbelly feel inside, below, those waves, invisible but mighty, how loud must they get before crossing that fluid threshold, becoming audible, particular, waveforms, when does an object become its own echoey shadow?
sipping coffee on a Tuesday afternoon,
the roasting smell rests against your hoodie,
it’s a normal day, an average beverage
and eventually – a simple sundown to come
as time trickles bluer, parallels permeate through your thoughts –
and she holds your hand, somewhere else across the timeline,
maybe Millenium Park, a distorted reflection of you two amidst hundreds of others
or on the High Line, your elongated shadows racing ahead of you,
and hundreds of you in Versailles, the Hall of Mirrors.
here, now, it feels okay
you know it’ll never quite feel like home,
but for now, it’s simple enough, linear.
winter on its last leg,
spring tunes through my earphones regardless.
the jacket, decreasingly fitting, still on
my back –
longer days are back, Mondays ahead now glimmering adventures
no leaves sprung yet, but
. the struggle it had been.
shades of sounds of chunks of life
keying in, in
ringing through the air.
what happened here.
a manufactured memory.
the indistinct temperature of the ivory
against her skin.
the keys invariable raise back up,
line up. precisely. even after sometimes chaos is rung the ivories
tipping point –
there are no colours left in my wardrobe,
and only two dozen items maybe.
some socks and underwear.
the pictures on the walls have come down also,
but for one, of two women embracing each other like sisters of lovers, I don’t know.
it remains hung right above a television
that isn’t connected to anything.
progressively editing my own life down.
making room for increasingly complex ideas.