[writing] daydreaming is also therapy.
Just playing with pictures and words.
He asks what she's doing underneath the table, cross-legged and curled into herself like a child hiding from thunder and rain. When she smiles, it is sheepish and she shrugs, the word "Nothing," floating towards him like the last thin, gray-white smoke trails that spiral away from a burnt-out candlewick.
He can't fit under there. It's not even a matter of just crouching low as to not hit his head, the space just isn't enough for him much less them both. But she fits, and the shadows that join her are comfortable in her company, draped all over her like fine, fine cloth the texture and frailness of ladies' stockings or spider webs. They slip into the spaces around her, find room to settle against her skin, lean against her shoulder, hide underneath her hair, there behind her neck. They sleep underneath her eyes, their multitudinous limbs weightless on her cheeks.
Her cat-eyes are quiet when they look back at him, quiet and yet expectant as if unsure if the hand that holds the sleek and pretty ribbon, will make it dance again or jerk away beyond paw's reach. They are both filled and vacant, here and far away, the lashes that surround them like the thin, thin petals of some bright-orange flower defiant in color and cheer on a background of dingy, sidewalk gray.
He knows: she has retreated to some other place, thought roaming through the unseen spaces of memory and feeling while her body is still aware of the rest of the world beyond her little below-the-table-cave. Cave, yes, a copy of some other primeval place hidden in the hip of a mountain, or the cupped palm of the cliff that awaits the daily rush of waves from the sea.
He calls her back with a word, a name, a worried prayer on his lips and she slips out, face pressed to his shoulder so that their hearts align, one unto the other.
He asks what she's doing underneath the table, cross-legged and curled into herself like a child hiding from thunder and rain. When she smiles, it is sheepish and she shrugs, the word "Nothing," floating towards him like the last thin, gray-white smoke trails that spiral away from a burnt-out candlewick.
He can't fit under there. It's not even a matter of just crouching low as to not hit his head, the space just isn't enough for him much less them both. But she fits, and the shadows that join her are comfortable in her company, draped all over her like fine, fine cloth the texture and frailness of ladies' stockings or spider webs. They slip into the spaces around her, find room to settle against her skin, lean against her shoulder, hide underneath her hair, there behind her neck. They sleep underneath her eyes, their multitudinous limbs weightless on her cheeks.
Her cat-eyes are quiet when they look back at him, quiet and yet expectant as if unsure if the hand that holds the sleek and pretty ribbon, will make it dance again or jerk away beyond paw's reach. They are both filled and vacant, here and far away, the lashes that surround them like the thin, thin petals of some bright-orange flower defiant in color and cheer on a background of dingy, sidewalk gray.
He knows: she has retreated to some other place, thought roaming through the unseen spaces of memory and feeling while her body is still aware of the rest of the world beyond her little below-the-table-cave. Cave, yes, a copy of some other primeval place hidden in the hip of a mountain, or the cupped palm of the cliff that awaits the daily rush of waves from the sea.
He calls her back with a word, a name, a worried prayer on his lips and she slips out, face pressed to his shoulder so that their hearts align, one unto the other.