Jan 2016
[A prose poem].
I see you've got the ropes.
Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
You took the balcony along. You've got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.
I see you've got the ropes.
Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
You took the balcony along. You've got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.
