if you ask
I'll walk you through this.
It is sometime in December, and outside, a feeble storm sulks, sliding down the roads in rivulets. I'm leaving her, though I haven't quite had enough. Going indoors, the metal gate is a surprising, cool hardness (in this city, I expect everything to come apart happily in my hands). I descend the steps and the door opens. I place my shoes in a line by the door. Three pairs of mine lie placidly, though I'm only a visitor.
The houses here come narrow as a secret. I walk the corridor to the end, where a small room looks out into other homes that look out into the sea, a small blue patch in the horizon. My things are scattered on the carpet, an avalanche of frantic purchases, still tagged, anonymous enough to suit me up so I'll look like I belong.
And what I remember best is waking up in this room. Mornings are cold, so I scoot up by the heater, which blasts a whistle of toastiness into my frozen toes. I thaw for a minute or so, and I pad across the kitchen, into the corridor, into the den whose windows blink shyly into the street. Mornings are quiet, gentle as a grey sigh. Sometimes I see feet walking between the curtains, framed like an opera. I imagine an entire history written into their shoes, long as a Tolstoy.
In the afternoons we walk. We dart into shops and you comment on the terribly-designed clothes. I buy my favourite dress which my mother will later ruin in the wash. I still keep it in the back of my closet, loved.
*
Today: wrapping my hands around a cup shaped like an egg, surprised by the way a heavy flavour could taste so light in my mouth. I found a song that I have loved for a year, buried at the end of a jazz chorus. I thought for the longest time about the way the pianist moved his hands, note after note, knowing I could never be him. But if I can't create a song I can write a poem - anything part of art is a fraternal twin. I stood beneath the ceilings and shouted again, my last shout was louder than before. Later, the bus, finally getting home, myself, tucked beneath the sloppy, furring green of my sweater, getting home, listening to music, singing under the sound of a hum, finding home at last.
It is sometime in December, and outside, a feeble storm sulks, sliding down the roads in rivulets. I'm leaving her, though I haven't quite had enough. Going indoors, the metal gate is a surprising, cool hardness (in this city, I expect everything to come apart happily in my hands). I descend the steps and the door opens. I place my shoes in a line by the door. Three pairs of mine lie placidly, though I'm only a visitor.
The houses here come narrow as a secret. I walk the corridor to the end, where a small room looks out into other homes that look out into the sea, a small blue patch in the horizon. My things are scattered on the carpet, an avalanche of frantic purchases, still tagged, anonymous enough to suit me up so I'll look like I belong.
And what I remember best is waking up in this room. Mornings are cold, so I scoot up by the heater, which blasts a whistle of toastiness into my frozen toes. I thaw for a minute or so, and I pad across the kitchen, into the corridor, into the den whose windows blink shyly into the street. Mornings are quiet, gentle as a grey sigh. Sometimes I see feet walking between the curtains, framed like an opera. I imagine an entire history written into their shoes, long as a Tolstoy.
In the afternoons we walk. We dart into shops and you comment on the terribly-designed clothes. I buy my favourite dress which my mother will later ruin in the wash. I still keep it in the back of my closet, loved.
*
Today: wrapping my hands around a cup shaped like an egg, surprised by the way a heavy flavour could taste so light in my mouth. I found a song that I have loved for a year, buried at the end of a jazz chorus. I thought for the longest time about the way the pianist moved his hands, note after note, knowing I could never be him. But if I can't create a song I can write a poem - anything part of art is a fraternal twin. I stood beneath the ceilings and shouted again, my last shout was louder than before. Later, the bus, finally getting home, myself, tucked beneath the sloppy, furring green of my sweater, getting home, listening to music, singing under the sound of a hum, finding home at last.