silence and sunflower seeds a salt-encrusted SUV mid-afternoon-winter-sun. she ties her fists in slender knots, and i fiddle with the **** on the radio.
we talk about burns and the sick scent of nostalgia mixed with wine in a cardboard box mixed with empty pockets, the way crumbs and lint on fingertips can induce such ache.
as she speaks a part of me wonders at the complexity of human relationships, at how meaning between people muddles and how moments like these right here right now separate whole centuries of time. i think about walking through forests made of paper trees and having a knack for noticing what could have been. i imagine her lying in bed late at night, her mind a metronome measuring out notes of deprecation, sandpapering all her holed up bits of pride. i bet sometimes during those barely-awake moments she feels like an orphan.
but now, right now right now. beneath a ***** windshield and surrounded by bundled up, brick facades she hides behind glossy brown hair and faded skinny jeans. she has pink keys in her lap but nowhere to go, and she tells me about emptiness in words she knows i barely understand.