(no subject)
The way a shaft of light could be anything, and it is only in reaching out to touch the surface it is caught on that you find out. The way I know the sound of footsteps on our thirteen stairs and who each sound belongs to. The way I can hear my little brother’s soft sleep breathing anywhere in the house, and the way it comforts me. The way my mother used to have to cover his head with a blanket before he would sleep, and the way he always woke up pink cheeked, warm and giggling. The way a pulsing, dark, noisy room makes every sentence a secret, and holding their arm and leaning in makes a mystery of “Can I get you a drink?” or “Have you seen him?” or “I love your dress”. The way A. fills my glass. The way it feels to wake up and realise my window is still open and the flowers and perfume bottles on my window sill are peppered with early morning rain. The way “calm autumn days” is a privilege to hear and a thing to live up to. The way N. lined my eyes and the way it smudged on my pillow. The way F. tells his jokes and how surprised I am each time I find myself laughing. The ways I have been forgiven and the things I have forgiven myself for. The way I can not sleep before three in the morning, but three in the morning is so wretched and romantic that I don’t mind the red eyes too much. The way my car key is slightly bent and the way my radio sounds in the morning. The way I said ‘I love you’ and meant it, but don’t worry don’t worry. The way my room is never tidy and my nails are never shaped and my favourite pink shoes cost me five pounds and refuse to die. The way my father buys me expensive wine. The way I can wiggle my nose and my ears and curl my tongue into a clover shape, and how much that amuses certain people when I perform on cue. The way he was so close. The way I intend to be kind.