12 new emails
there is a rainbow maker hanging in the window of the lesbians' apartment on a third floor in asheville, nc. a carpeted apartment, the cats are chasing around prisms of colored light, convinced they're going crazy.
kr asleep in the other room, lying on her back with her mouth a little open, that's right i peeked.
we were up until 3:30 in the morning, unable to explain how we didn't want to go to bed, first it was a game and then a song and then a snack. a head that won't sleep, an asking voice that goes unanswered. we get in the car, speeding over the hills and miles, song after song, as we stalk the sun moving across the sky, convinced we're going crazy.
last night was song after song on the living room floor, and the first time in forever i've laughed so hard i cried. a kind of laugh that has my stomach sore this morning, listening to the cat's desperate tiny plea, saying "why all these specks of light? why so intangible? why can't i get one, and what would it taste like?"
the day is warm in north carolina, baking me in the window, baking the earth outside, not at all like the soggy mess of four years ago, and i slept in a dry place, a bed warmed over from suggestion, a room quiet with the slow ache of an early morning turned bedtime.
i hold the cat up, willing her to to understand it's just a piece of plastic, it's just the sun, it's just a refraction of light, it's just a shimmering mirage, bright and unattainable.
i know that look in her eyes, and i am just a cat, chasing a reflection, asking what it would taste like.
kr asleep in the other room, lying on her back with her mouth a little open, that's right i peeked.
we were up until 3:30 in the morning, unable to explain how we didn't want to go to bed, first it was a game and then a song and then a snack. a head that won't sleep, an asking voice that goes unanswered. we get in the car, speeding over the hills and miles, song after song, as we stalk the sun moving across the sky, convinced we're going crazy.
last night was song after song on the living room floor, and the first time in forever i've laughed so hard i cried. a kind of laugh that has my stomach sore this morning, listening to the cat's desperate tiny plea, saying "why all these specks of light? why so intangible? why can't i get one, and what would it taste like?"
the day is warm in north carolina, baking me in the window, baking the earth outside, not at all like the soggy mess of four years ago, and i slept in a dry place, a bed warmed over from suggestion, a room quiet with the slow ache of an early morning turned bedtime.
i hold the cat up, willing her to to understand it's just a piece of plastic, it's just the sun, it's just a refraction of light, it's just a shimmering mirage, bright and unattainable.
i know that look in her eyes, and i am just a cat, chasing a reflection, asking what it would taste like.