What could have been clings to my skin
As would water dried with a sodden towel.
The air is cold, my body a certain shade of damp…
Somehow I’m supposed to put on my clothes
Walk out to the car, open the door
Sit down in the driver’s seat, ignite and fire the engine…
Instead, I begin to mold—or mildew—a human-defier,
Breathing moist breath on the windows, creating mini rain clouds that will blind me to the road ahead.
If I am to dry—I’ve
Got to turn on the defroster,
But sitting here I can draw your image in the condensation,
Again and again,
Each time it begins to fade.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
What could have been clings to my skin
As would water dried with a sodden towel.
The air is cold, my body a certain shade of damp…
Somehow I’m supposed to put on my clothes
Walk out to the car, open the door
Sit down in the driver’s seat, ignite and fire the engine…
Instead, I begin to mold—or mildew—a human-defier,
Breathing moist breath on the windows, creating mini rain clouds that will blind me to the road ahead.
If I am to dry—I’ve
Got to turn on the defroster,
But sitting here I can draw your image in the condensation,
Again and again,
Each time it begins to fade.