Jan 2016
Wakes up, she rummages through an overhead cupboard for some leaves. Overplayed mush on the radio, she turns on a ***** kettle. Lukewarm.
She puts her hand into a jar to retrieve a handful. Loose between her fingers, a memory.
She remembers how he rolled tea.
Jimi poster on a white wall, amidst smoke and rock and roll that hung in his chambers indefinately, defiantly. Books and books, Marley papers, flyers, tin foil, protracted dreams, the sort. His time was nonchalant, a little out of touch and oblivous to the one ticking outside (no windows). Well one but save a view of a narrow hole that was blocked by a chugging compressor; the sound of a nonexistent house guest until the desire to seek outside came to mind.
The sun is veiled again. She likes the grey. Not for its melancholic nature however. It jived somehow with her routine, she thought. Radio mush continues as the kettle begins purring.
iPod, cheap speakers, a laptop that hummed on the bright side of dim. So many songs.
Glow in the dark stars littered the wall next to Jimi. He said dreams hung on stars. Not noose but
like a bug on the underside of a leaf, clinging – till when she wondered.
Rain is coming little bug.
“Wake up”
She fluttered – angel-like, eyes a little grogged and gouged by too much sleep.
“What time is it?”
No such reply warrants. Phones are dead. Both under a pile of blankets like a premature burial. Cold, like their legs touching.
No facebook eulogy. Social media presence a little too truncated for her liking. Puts a newer form of private; that could only be unlatched by pokes that hurt, both ways. It would make both of them quiver which she would silently play in her head from time to time.
She shivered. Cold. It bit on the tips of her fingers. The kettle is close to a boil. She touches metallic just to feel it.
“*******”
Religion, he shared the room with though (much to her surprise). Spoke of eternity and suffering.
Whoever this god is he/she must have one hell of a sense of humour.
“Prance, you ******,”
Laughs, a longing sigh, a whistle follows.
The kettle calls. She remembers. Head drifts back from cloud fluff.
Leaves on the bottom of porcelain, meet the scald of hot water! They unfurl (giving in) and a dash of brown escapes, tickling her nose at the same time.
She went to fish out her phone to set the timer.
3 minutes.
She puts her hand into a jar to retrieve a handful. Loose between her fingers, a memory.
She remembers how he rolled tea.
Jimi poster on a white wall, amidst smoke and rock and roll that hung in his chambers indefinately, defiantly. Books and books, Marley papers, flyers, tin foil, protracted dreams, the sort. His time was nonchalant, a little out of touch and oblivous to the one ticking outside (no windows). Well one but save a view of a narrow hole that was blocked by a chugging compressor; the sound of a nonexistent house guest until the desire to seek outside came to mind.
The sun is veiled again. She likes the grey. Not for its melancholic nature however. It jived somehow with her routine, she thought. Radio mush continues as the kettle begins purring.
iPod, cheap speakers, a laptop that hummed on the bright side of dim. So many songs.
Glow in the dark stars littered the wall next to Jimi. He said dreams hung on stars. Not noose but
like a bug on the underside of a leaf, clinging – till when she wondered.
Rain is coming little bug.
“Wake up”
She fluttered – angel-like, eyes a little grogged and gouged by too much sleep.
“What time is it?”
No such reply warrants. Phones are dead. Both under a pile of blankets like a premature burial. Cold, like their legs touching.
No facebook eulogy. Social media presence a little too truncated for her liking. Puts a newer form of private; that could only be unlatched by pokes that hurt, both ways. It would make both of them quiver which she would silently play in her head from time to time.
She shivered. Cold. It bit on the tips of her fingers. The kettle is close to a boil. She touches metallic just to feel it.
“*******”
Religion, he shared the room with though (much to her surprise). Spoke of eternity and suffering.
Whoever this god is he/she must have one hell of a sense of humour.
“Prance, you ******,”
Laughs, a longing sigh, a whistle follows.
The kettle calls. She remembers. Head drifts back from cloud fluff.
Leaves on the bottom of porcelain, meet the scald of hot water! They unfurl (giving in) and a dash of brown escapes, tickling her nose at the same time.
She went to fish out her phone to set the timer.
3 minutes.
