to me, winter is cinnamon. dotted ceilings make me itch. 5pm tells me "sleep" -- then yellow fills me with "home".
there is something about you that smells a lot like January. a lot like blinking and train tickets. sometimes i look at you and think about the lazy curls of y's and g's after they've been sleeping so long on December's hardwood floors.
and i don't know how else to say it. is there a word for "waking up with bruises by a lover who was never there"?
what about that kaleidoscope feeling? how you unfold all over the place when i turn inward. at times nonsense. at times ugly.
a lot like sea salt on dry land, and fireworks that bloom in the middle of the day.