She’s an inside-outside person
A tip-toeing lopsided dancer
A painter
A sculptor
A writer

I close the book and sit up.
It’s been a while
since the last time I finished a book in one sitting.
Lately I haven’t had time,
so I’ve read them in parts.
Really short parts.
I’d forgotten the feel of a whole book.
It is a completely different sensation.

I close the book and sit up.
Then I stare at the back cover for a few moments
and then,
I flip it over.
Then I stare at the front cover for a few moments
and then,
I open it and close it again.
And then I take a deep breath.

I close the book and sit up.
I look around and come back to my room.
It takes a while
to get used to the change in surrounding.
I feel as though I was thousands of years away.
I forgot what it felt like to get lost like that.
It was nice feeling,
getting lost,
and then returning.

I close the book and sit up.
I look around the room,
remembering where everything was,
that part of the wall with the paint peeling away,
the stickers I put up on that side of the room when I was ten.
A fly,
which has somehow gotten in,
buzzes around the room
looking for an escape,
trying to find where the light is coming from.
This may take a while seeing as I have the curtains drawn.
It flies around getting dizzy, until I lose sight of it.
I look up at the picture of me and my best friend on the wall,
trying to remember that this is the world I belong to.
Trying to remember what my place in it was.
It’s hard to pull yourself out of a world,
your left with a bittersweet after taste
from somewhere faraway.
The taste differs from book to book.
Right now, it tastes
like peaches.
I feel slightly disoriented, and dizzy,
like the fly.
I feel washed out.
The same feeling you have after having a good cry.
Because sometimes, those are necessary.
It’s a good feeling,
satisfying and unsatisfying at the same time.


I close the book and sit up.
The curtain is wrinkled
and there is an odd yellow light shining through its translucent surface.
That’s right.
It’s sunlight.
There’s a door, and a hallway outside it.
That’s right.
It leads to the kitchen.
There is a backpack,
with papers,
and books spilling out of it.
That’s right I have a paper due tomorrow.
A test the day after that,
and after the last plunge I took I can’t afford to do badly on it.
Slowly following this pattern
of familiarizing myself with the world
I come back.

Face, Hands, Feet
Feet, Face, Hands
Hands, Feet, Face

I read life in faces
in smiles
in wrinkles
and crinkles
and crow’s feet
I read life in faces
in tears
in eyes
and byes
and wibbly wobbly lips
I read life in faces
in blushes
in glances
and tilted winks
and looks of surprise
I read life in faces
in eyebrows
in eye-rolls
and shakes of the head
I read life in faces
In expressions
In language
And voices
And accents
I read life in hands
In calluses
In knuckles
and bitten fingernails
I read life in hands
In lines
In creases
and lefts
And rights
I read life in hands
In paper cuts
in ink stains
and picked at cuticles
I read life in hands
In holds
In handshakes
and chin resting places
I read life in hands
In puppets
In tickles
And pinky promises

I read life in feet
In walks
In tip-toes
And dances
I read life in feet
In heels
In flats
and grass between toes
I read life in feet
In steps
In lunges
And plunges
And climbs
I read life in feet
in far-a way’s
In nearbyes
And sock-feet at home
I read life in feet
Not inches
Not yards
Nor meters
Not miles per hour
But feet.

Face,Feet,Hands
Hands,Face,Feet
Feet,Hands,Face