"dryly" poems
I drank once,
from the deep well of sleep
when cool waters refreshed this parched earth,
now barren without nourishing dreams.
My worries grow futile shoots
in the hardpack, they wither and die.
Ashes scattered dryly
fuel further frets.
This drought is not over.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
It was a rainy night. He took out his umbrella, opened it, and it soon engulfed the both of us. "Hey, you're getting wet," he said. He pulled me closer to him, his arms like the umbrella protecting me, protecting us from the drizzle.
I snapped out of my daydream to find him weirdly staring at me, and asked him, "What, do I have something on my face?"
"No, it's just... why are you staring into space?"
Our footsteps made little splashes, puddles reflected a thousand images of us. These pictures from nature will not last for a lifetime but the rain was our witness, as if the skies were crying at a matrimonial ceremony.
I took a step away from him to let the memory of him soak in me. He stands there in the rain innocently, with umbrella in hand, waiting for me to respond. Breathing out, I told him: "Ask me what I think of you right now."
"Wait, what? Are we going to play a game?" That usual what-is-going-on look still stupidly plastered on his angelic face. "Well, what do you think of me right now, then?"
I didn't hesitate and the first word that automatically left my lips were 'umbrella'.
"Umbrella? Do I look that thin to you, really?" He said dryly as he gave me an uninspired look. He shook his head in disbelief and pouted. "And I thought you'd relate me at least to the rain."
"Umbrella: definition for a protecting force or influence," I told him as I stood in place. I side-glanced at him to find a spark lighted up in his eyes as his shoulders loosened. "You're my umbrella because I need you in rainy days and sunny ones. Literally because of your stature to block the sun or cover me when it rains," I laughed. "And it's not because you're thin like one, silly. But how you comfortingly stretch out your arms to me when it's a bad day for me. How you guard me from others' icy remarks. It feels like a need to have you around wherever I go."
He cleared his throat jokingly and added, "Might I say I also take you high like Mary Poppins' umbrella." He burst out laughing as I glared at him for his poorly done innuendo.
But right there and then as I rolled my eyes at him, he dropped the umbrella, grabbed me by my waist and kissed me as light as the raindrops kissing our skin. He broke off after a while and said, "Getting wet, are we?"
Before I could claw at him for his second pun, he released me as I chased him down, not caring if I would get a fever later. But sometimes I just wonder how did I come to like, fall in love, and love him-- basically feel every emotion with him. In all truth, he wasn't just my umbrella, but also my home whom I'll always return to at the end of all my days. Umbrella or home, he is my shelter.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
A casual glance, a gentle touch,
It stops at that, we know it must.
A chaste embrace, an offered cheek
which I dryly kiss and count it sweet.
Once we’d danced around a flame-
an older man, a willing maid.
Both comfortable in our own skin
In secret we began our sin.
I know your body like my wife’s
But she was elsewhere, I recall
Your husband, too, was on the road
When I, like Adam, had my fall.
We speak of nothings, jobs, careers,
Not of our existential fears.
Celebrity splits, Horrid crimes,
our ****** ever on our minds.
We dance like moths about a flame
which never must be lit again.
It stops at this, we know it must
a casual glance, a gentle touch.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Little girl in a blue
snow globe.
Pressed white shirt and tartan skirt.
Hair slipping
out of a ponytail or braid or something
like that.
Laughter like a current
to be lost in by a boatman.
Her first time at the beach.
Writing
childish saltwater sonnets
in the sand with her toes.
Paper-plane sky
kisses
sea brimming
out of its seams.
Singing, on-off key,
school choir tone,
'Never Let Me Go'.
Who needs, she needs
nothing
but
the horizon
cupped
in outstretched palms.
Innocence stored
in jagged-shiny shells
waiting to be
buried
in hot, bare sand.
Time comes to shore, oceans
grow warmer,
shallow.
No more of kid braids
but a woman in
azure.
Her whole life having been
a half-moon run
out of deep, dry wells
in search of,
in search of...
in search of
what, but
hope.
Cracking oyster shells
looking for
pearls.
Time again comes to shore.
Cigarette pants for tartan skirt,
in a blue-almost-black.
Staring out
at water lapping before her,
before her, after the sky.
Before,
after.
The horizon is a pretty picture
she wants to hang
on the wall of her heart.
But she, schoolgirl trapped in snow globe,
remembers
textbook phrases like
'Humans are made up of 75%
water.'
So we are drowning every moment,
she thinks dryly.
Water within,
inevitable.
Maybe her skin or nerves or vocal cords
sensed it all those years ago
in the schoolgirl's snow globe.
Like crying, like love,
like fearing, like dying.
Shifting, receding, flowing in
and out.
Could emotions be tides she dares,
dares not
row, row,
row through?
Where did it all leak away?
Was it in the salt
running down her face?
If she is 75% water,
where has it drained
to leave the heart parched,
and her tartan days a distant drought
of memory?
Snow globe melts away.
Wade in, wade in,
have your fill,
until skin is slick
with better pain.
You told the ocean years ago,
you sang in schoolgirl choir tones,
never,
never,
never let me go.
Now it never will.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Last week, Cortney moved into a four story apartment
with seven twenty-something year old roomates, all boys.
The men share the first three floors.
while Cortney has the enire top floor to herself.
I spent the night there saturday night.
And around 10:00pm
a twenty-three year old boy
Blonde, baby faced, named Kevin Smith
stumbled drunk into Cortneys penthouse room.
Kevin smith removed his pants, and crawled into bed with us.
Kevin Smith nuzzled into my face, pulled me close, and rested his hand,
firmly on my ***
Kevin Smiths breath smelled of *** coffee, (and a man who regularly brushes his teeth.
Good Job Kevin Smith.)
At first, Cortney and I assumed Kevin Smith was each other.
after further, mostly-unconcious, inventory of our limbs,
we gathered this was neither the case, nor a hallucination.
Cortney flopped dryly for her cellphone and shined it's light at Kevin Smith.
"What the **** Shouted Cortney.
No response from Kevin Smith.
"What the ****
We got out of bed and put clothes on,
laughed at how ridiculous it was
that a drunk stranger just grabbed my ***
while an unconcious Kevin Smith laid in Cortneys bed.
Kevin Smith sat up
"This is really telling. I uh..."
Cortney cut him off
"Get out."
As she turned on the light.
"Can you guys call my phone?" Asked Kevin Smith,
"No." Said Cortney
Get out of my room."
physically pushing Kevin Smith out of her room.
Cortney held up Kevin Smiths drunk zanax filled body on the stairs.
preventing Kevin Smith from otherwise falling down said stairs and dying.
Kevin Smith showed his appreciation by saying,
"High fives all around"
I watched Cortney strattle drunk Kevin Smith awkwardly, yet also motherly
down the stairs.
I leaned over the railing and high fived Kevin Smith.
"I just want you to know," mumbled Kevin Smith
you guys are my friends.
You don't need to.. I got this".
"No, you really don't" said Cortney,
"if you fall down or throw up on me
you owe me $20"
Cortney delivered Kevin Smith to his bed.
Kevin Smith mumbled something, and Cortney returned upstairs.
"What the **** Laughed Cortney.
"What the **** I replied.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:
“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”
“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany
Oct 14, 2024
Oct 14, 2024 at 3:06 PM UTC
Have you ever noticed
that tail lights reflect
off tire-worn roads
when sun and all
have gone asleep?
A pair of red glow
just seems to float
through space
like a reverse halo
behind and below vehicle
on its 2am way elsewhere.
And how about the fact
that windshield wiper and turn signal
never truly-precisely-
exactly-rhythmically sync?
One clicks and blinks,
the other dryly whaps,
on that first swipe,
of course,
just when light mist
begins to stick
and the exit approaches
at a slick
sixty-five-miles-an-hour.
Turn down the volume now,
it's time to pay attention.
Candle wax doesn't always
melt directly inward.
Sometimes it does dome
perfectly,
which makes it
all the more fun
to push further.
Other times it just bows out,
as if to say,
"There'll be no addition
to the amount of light
I'll be giving you tonight.
You'll just have to bend me in
and pray for a split-less base,"
as hours, seeming like minutes,
in minutiae,
are spent burning our tobacco
and circling our teacups
and laughing effortlessly,
indenting pillows and rugs
and us keeping so, so quiet
as not to awaken ourselves.
Waxing is always
a chance worth risking
because, worst case,
we can inflame another dancer
while we chat
and hope that,
just this once,
God help us,
we realize
our stars align.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 3:36 AM UTC
her eyes invest in me the truths of her fragile heart
she wished to know happiness and freedom once more
she leaned gently against the window frame
her eloquent beauty whispered gently on my eyes
she gave me a soft sorrow by declining the offered flower
my words like autumn leaves gathered dryly at my feet of clay
my intents pure of heart stumbled weakly
as i tried to explain
that a breathtaking glimpse of her had found me
she was standing subtle and alluring in sunshines vivid light
highlights in her hair a golden hue like a regal crown
lost in the imagery of her smiling moment
lost in her radiated gentleness
that engulfs like silent fierce seduction of your heart's better natures
you only think of heartfelt wish to see her joy
you breath and live to see her smile
you will love her presence like summery sunshine's kiss
you will adore her silken voice like moonlight dance upon water
the offered plastic flower but a token of adoration
a bauble cast with noble intent
for a fine young goddess
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"I guess you're right," Lyn sighs.
"Though, I will take this up with
the guards. Seeing how it was very
easy for us to sneak out."
*'I wonder if they will even notice
that their Queen is missing...'* Lyn
chuckles dryly, her hands on her
hips.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Try not to be too hard on them,
My Lady." Ainhara chuckles
while walking to them, an old
wicker basket with lids hanging
from her slender arm.
The wind blows and her dark
green skirt ***** in the winds
around her legs, as did Esshi's
and Lyn's.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She is gently rummaging through it.
"The coins should be enough for
all three of us. Now, are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be." Lyn says as she pulls
up her face veil, and her ladies do
the same. The day is bright and hot,
but the opaque veils are light.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Ainhara leads the way, walking
through the forests, Esshi and Lyn
behind her. Out of the forests,
they follow the path down into
the ever bright, bustling, colourful
Aurelinaean town.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
*confident on timeworn routes
until unknown brings gasping fear*
what is this ?
*my playground now to be reduced
to rutted paths of paltry use ?*
enough !
power mine I have denied
creative pulses flattened
miming patterns drawn by others
spark of mine allowed to smother
shocked I recognize within
dryly spreading stubbornness
***the false vitality
of habit***
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
Down from the icy Sawtooth crags
and through the winter-laden landscape,
the wind eventually dips to the canyon
and creek we loved so well as children.
Continuing on, it threads through the
hollows above the creek, sculpted even
today by stooped cottonwood trees.
Twisting above granite outcroppings
and lava boulders, the wind courses
through the giant arteries of this canyon,
passing among quaking aspen, river willow,
and gnarled cottonwood, shorn rudely
by now of every dryly-veined leaf.
At ancient volcanic escarpments the
wind bears south, scraping hard along
canyon walls. Upward it moves, out of
the canyon, slowing and sallying about
the hillocks, the gullies, the poplars
until it finally comes to stir ever more
gently, warmer even, my dear brother,
around your gray marbled headstone.
Primeval of days, this very same wind
blows for eternity upon eternity, polishing
and purifying even the roughest of
the earth's elements and impediments.
This said, at this hill's crest where you rest,
there is no need of further refinement. Feel
how the northern wind quiets for you,
as if it knows over whose stone it passes.
--
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
Roots all are but in earth fixed
Blind,groping,for succor hungry
Aimless,embraced soiled,underground.
No longer hunger do I for mine now
History its to be rooted,death untimely,
Being rotten,eaten dryly weak,rejected
Let me be that airy tree fairy,breathing green
Spreading wings,feeding airs joyous,free,
Or a carcass dead,by mothers all deserted,
By nature connected, still life and beautiful!
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
a thousand years ago, wrote a poem called
“why I always carry tissues” -
a labor of love to
mine own toddlers misadventures,
requiring love covered in tissues so soft,
yet an ironclad coating
of natural substantive parenting
useful for tearing eyes, running noses,
and the cuts of living outdoors joyously
children grow older and oft that means,
they seek not your counsel,
and if offered, politely ignored,
for so it goes tween fathers and sons
then one summer days you receive an
observation, a datapoint that irradiates,
a quiet confirmation that not everything
you’ve said and done has gone astray
a young’un of “almost ten,” informs her father,
around the luncheon table of three generations,
that her foot is hurting; the son, now the father,
diagnosis renders, a blister, which will require
a protective custody that will protect the child’s
feet from the ravages of furious Shell Beach fun,
or the rough of a Manhattan sidewalk
I watch with a joy so quiet and so overwhelming,
as the son-father reaches into a cargo pocket,
producing not one but two bandaids, for life
requires backups for there are other babes about,
who at moments notice, produce scrapes and cuts
of ever greater consequence for each year they age
his wife renders me overjoyed, when she dryly
observe how certain children are lucky that
their father always carries bandaids, a new factoid,
for me, an unknown that glistens like a wet shell
now my eyes tearing, for a message in a bandaid,
or a tissue no matter which, is a certified proof,
somehow a message got through the clutter,
marked “well received,” that loving well requires
an oh so very hard attention to details, and that deep pockets
are repositories of good notions, handed down generations
June 24, 2021
Shell Beach
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 5:07 AM UTC
When you decided to leave
We shut each other out of our lives completely
You changed your "About Me" to quotes to help you grieve
And when I finally thought we were through
You changed your quote to "I loved you too"
Which messed up my mind completely
Then you changed them to song quotes
And you put little hearts around it
I thought you moved on, so I ignored it
I thought you fell in love with someone else, letting me be
When I looked up the lyrics, knowing they had to be about me
And I thought you were silently asking if we could be friends
So I decided to talk to you again
And you spoke dryly and ignored me again
And that was my last attempt, so I decided to move on
And now you decided that I'm the one that's gone
So what now are you trying to achieve?
You lost the one that stayed when you decided to leave
Sep 29, 2024
Sep 29, 2024 at 12:38 PM UTC
the air is cooler
less kenetic and soupy
less aggressive with the mammal scent
safer (it seems) clean
the skin retracts a little
dryly
less welcoming to dirt contact
my feet shift cooly in my sandals
the world awaits
new temperament
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
All things have passed
Or perhaps they will
I can no longer recall
Passing through the void as I did
I know not where I arrived
Or if I am anywhere at all
I have forgotten most things
If I ever knew much to begin with
I do remember a string of words
An inseparable feeling attached to them
"I will never forget you"
Though who said it eludes me
That feeling has not left me
Though the moment has been lost
I must continue on through this void
Wherever it may take me
I cannot betray this memory
That last bright star in my mind
Amid a sea of ink black darkness
For it is all that remains
As I traverse this void
Here beyond all space
I whisper dryly
I will never forget you
Though, I do not know your name
For I know that you remember me
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 12:07 PM UTC
She’d been depressed at seeing how her parents had aged in just a couple of years. She hadn’t really contemplated time much before, it had seemed an endless resource.
Seeing her lying listlessly in bed, he asked “Are you ok?”
“I’m getting old,” she admitted, closing her eyes to conserve energy.
“You’re turning 20,” he stated dryly, somewhere in the darkness.
“Still,” she said, “You should know that I’ll start wrinkling, any day now, like a deflating balloon.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” He said. She opened her eyes and looked at him soberly.
“You’re almost 27, are you getting crows feet?” He flinched away from her outstretching hand.
“No,” He responded confidently, but he checked his reflection in her dorm room mirror.
“Soon, your libido will flag,” she informed him solemnly, taking his hand for comfort.
He slipped off the bed and gently closed the bedroom door with a casual swipe of his hand.
“You should start eating fiber,” she gasped, “and retirement planning!”
“I’ve got a few good months left..” he said, as he came back to the bed and started unbuttoning the top of her yellow dress, “I might need someone, in the medical field, to keep an eye on me.”
“I could do that,” she smiled, as his button work progressed, “I do need more clinical hours.”
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 7:51 AM UTC
It wasn't like in the movie
Time didn't stop
No music played
when you walked into to my life
I wasn't blinking
for a split second can't be missed
I had a hard time deciding
where I sit
when I sit with you
cuz I wanted to watch you eat
and I wanted you beside me at the same time
My sister said "yes, your heart skipped a beat
but it isn't a heart desease,
cuz boy, you are in a much bigger trouble"
And I didn't get what she said
No one told me what's it like being in love
But I sat in the middle of the night,
writing poems about you
I was listening to songs
every single one dedicating to you
and every pretty thing I saw
reminded me of you
I never missed to smell your hair
I would kiss your hand at every chance
Every joke was to make you smile
Now I see you in the smoke I blew outside the window
Years ago, if someone told me about this
I would mock at them,
saying "move on, don't make it big a deal"
Now it is two years later,
my hands on the letters,
pressing one by one as I'm thinking of you
and one by one, the moments reappear
I still feel you all over me, touch by touch
but we've walked away from each other, step by step
I have to admit that tonight I moved one inch back to you
and I think I've been doing this inch by inch
but when I look around,
I'm in the same place as the last time I checked
when I thought I walked away
I might've chuckled dryly at the irony
I was right where I left you,
Right where I left you.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 2:41 AM UTC
“You’re eating, again?”
The question stings like a honeybee’s kiss
I smile dryly as I nibble at my plate
You have moved on now
But I don't hear you
“You’re eating, again?”
These words intricately constructs heavy vines
encircling the delicate hand that once held my fork
I smile harder as three words prickles my body
Fabricating a paralyzing smog in my skull
The food becomes unpalatable and my mouth parches
“You’re eating, again?”
I rise and then I watch
"You’re eating, again?”
get flushed in a porcelain bowl
And I feel the familiar swell behind my eyes
And I weep
I weep because I ate again
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
the sadness came and it didn't look like you or the words that erupted like volcanoes from your vocal chords. It looked like me with my eyes wide watching every mistake I've ever made in the mirror on my bathroom wall. It looked like every last drop of alcohol that comforts my throat at 10 in the morning. My knees bleed and I make sure I don't remember falling.
My only escape are these words but I always want to pull my eyelids over my body like my bedsheets every time I write them. I've always blamed myself for my parents silence. If my father couldn't love my mother, how could anyone ever love me? I'm ashamed of comparing that closet door to my body. And how it still comes mind every time I try to slam it shut into the depths of my mental crawl space.
I feel like the blood rushing through my veins is turning to rust and no matter how hard I try my mind refuses to rest. It runs like the second hand on a wall clock and stress crawls up my spine weaving spider webs in and out of my vertebrae. No matter how hard I try to sweep them under the beds of my finger nails like an old couch and forget, they always seem to find their way back.
I 'd crack my ribs to pull you out from where you reside inside me but I've never been strong enough.
I'd ***** up all my organs but that wouldn't make me any thinner.
My body is nothing but a hive made of bones harboring swarms of pointless thoughts and I'd do anything to exterminate them. But that's not my line of work.
The loneliness pours in waves and I can never breathe while dryly drowning. The cigarettes don't help either but when you're scratching your skin to stop thinking, they give your hands something to do. I'm losing the small grip on reality that I'm still holding onto by a pinky and thumb.
and If my walls could speak, they'd say "I'm sorry". So I'll continue to break my fingers praying I'd die in my sleep and lose myself in these bedsheets.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
Your sitting and someone pops you a question.
Your sitting in a room where everyone avoids the eyes.
Not the eyes of one person,
But the eyes of everyone around them.
There here to help were all here to get help.
I came here to get help.
Someone pops you a question.
The brave one.
Hey, I've seen you at school.
Why,are you here?
All is dryly silent,
Has it always been this silent?
Why.....are you here?
Hyper and curious they sound despite the environment already answering.
I had an accident,
I am being helped.
It's quiet again.
Has it always been this silent?
Are you sure or is that what they've told you.
No,
I can feel the difference.
The doctor will see you now........
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
A twig falls
into an oblivious backpack
and leaves a tic.
A package of cigarettes flies out the window of
a five-story building and smacks on the sidewalk,
like spit on some skin.
A scenario:
young, misbehaving child cools off in
a peaceful space, a bean-bag chair.
A premonition.
He’s twenty and wondering, where’s the bean bag now?
Two days of dryly coughing,
so much glowering,
he’s biking in the wrong direction.
“You’re idealistic,” he says to nobody.
He looks out the window, unsatisfied.
He eats a 3-bean salad, unsatisfied.
He adds bacon but it doesn’t matter
because I think he would rather die.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
notes,
when we walk easily and lowly
on an avenue, with a camera, with two hearts
we see and we have seen it
we breaststroke through a night so
dark and slovenly as to turn a sunrise purple
to red, ashamed
books,
when we love properly
when we speak slowly to better hear
the dripping of a warm and raining noon
there was nowhere left to go for us
coolly dryly, bookish we sat
and to a boyish morning, hurtled
will we sit again, as we walk
will we again open those books and laugh
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
We had breakfast on the Champs-Élysées this morning at Café Joyeux. Their croquet monsieur (a breakfast sandwich) was to die for - one bite can cure a hangover. They also serve a deep, rich Yirgacheffee coffee (€15 a cup) that I think God stirs with his little pinkie finger - it’s THAT good. We took up most of the little outdoor, oval tables on the right side (there are 10 of us) and our little sorority was noisy with chatter - earning us looks.
Our European vacation culminates today. We’re flying back to Georgia in a couple of hours. June seemed to drain away like water.
The minion my Grandmère charged with coordinating our vacation, François, breakfasted with us. He’s one of the flock of Sorbonne Université MBAs she recruits each year to infuse new energy into her conglomerates.
He briefed us on our departure and flight. His imposition of definitive order and advance planning allowed us a casual and carefree sense of travel this summer. In an ideal world, he’d coordinate my entire life.
He’s been on-call all month but joined us, off and on - like when we arrived in Doublin, at customs, to smoothly guide us through and again, similarly, in Paris.
He’s 26, very handsome and model looking. He’s perfectly tailored, with an elegant yet minimalist style. He wears dark shirts of admiral and yale blue with long black jackets and gray slacks with no tie. His hair is a hipster straight, blonde fringe.
He’s so perfect that I wouldn’t put it past my Grandmère to have placed him in front of me, like bait, to see if something with us sparked-off.
He’s Frenchly brisk and yet dryly solicitous - as if I have the power to sanction his position, which, in a way I suppose I do.
“How’s François doing?” Grandmère would ask, each time we talked.
“He’s wonderful,” I said, “I think he’s a keeper.”
“Good, good for him.” she would reply - making the comment sound almost sly.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 12:57 PM UTC