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c Jan 13
I awoke to time beating
its fists against my walls, and
could do nothing but
sing along


c
  Jan 13 c
Thursday
I didn't die
I just surrendered
And of course, the wilting began soon afterwards
c Jan 13
It has begun to rain and
I count its minutes washing away
The dirt of yesterday

In the hollow basement silence
I attempt to commit to memory the unadorned places I’ve kissed you
Before they’re washed away as well—

Shoulder blade.
Palm.
Cheek stubble.
Letters in your name.

I consider pooling the falling rain in my arms
To show you what I’ve found
Later—

That you, too, embody
The smell of springtime


c
c Jan 13
from a hole in the bed I crawl
from a window in my head I watch
from a sill, life in green rushes by
from a quiet air I think
myself into pounding and ringing

from the grey walls I roam
from the bus stop I dream
there’s a reality I’ve tasted before
but never savored, so
from a chalice of happy I sip myself
into ****** oblivion

from a beautiful scape I watch
the anxious sun beat color across the sky
and feel no heat

from eyes I make sense of a way home
leaving pieces as I go,
the roads paved in passing time 

from stairs I climb
room to room
and I’m here

from the pit of pity I mount the ledge
just to fall back
into bed

- c
falling into a daily routine
  Jan 13 c
Thursday
He's viciously attractive
So I religiously ignore his backwards way of seeing things
And fall into his arms day after night
As if the floor itself inclined to the left and I could do nothing but slip closer and closer to his place
Where he'd always be waiting for me
With a warm arm open and a cigar between his lips
c Jan 13
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement

I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe

I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody

mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming

My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer

It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine

- c
Translating music into movement and interpreting the artist’s pain
  Oct 2018 c
Nattalie Saso Sanchez
He is not iced tea
He will not leave you cold
He is not bitter coffee
He will not burn your lips
He is lukewarm
The kind of apple cider
You drive far to find
And then drink all at once
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