(no subject)
She is floating, it seems.
The distance between the soles of her shoes
and the cracked asphalt is so small really that
even ants detour around her flipflops,
seeing no hope of continuing
forward in their original direction.
So no one can tell, but she is floating.
And the days are flying by
while she laughs them off as temporal things
With a lingering aftertaste of salt
and ink.
For all of the times she had stood,
black-mouthed in front of a press and laughing
For late night faulterings that deposit ink or paint into the mouth
When two hands weren't enough to hold everything
and the wrong end was held between the teeth.
For all of those times, the taste was stronger today,
As she locked her studio door and her eyes lingered
over her own clean hands.
Busy with other things, and the worse for it.
((11 days more where it is my job to create, but I swear here that I will always make it such.))
The distance between the soles of her shoes
and the cracked asphalt is so small really that
even ants detour around her flipflops,
seeing no hope of continuing
forward in their original direction.
So no one can tell, but she is floating.
And the days are flying by
while she laughs them off as temporal things
With a lingering aftertaste of salt
and ink.
For all of the times she had stood,
black-mouthed in front of a press and laughing
For late night faulterings that deposit ink or paint into the mouth
When two hands weren't enough to hold everything
and the wrong end was held between the teeth.
For all of those times, the taste was stronger today,
As she locked her studio door and her eyes lingered
over her own clean hands.
Busy with other things, and the worse for it.
((11 days more where it is my job to create, but I swear here that I will always make it such.))