Saturday, August 22, 2009

give me the keys to your hiding place

she lay there, quite spent, the thought of him too much to contain all at once. If it was not for the very toothy grin, the sometimes sideways glance and the loneliness she felt in the rain, her colorful curtain would never have to struggle as much as it did when the wind blew. She let things go, now, for long stretches at a time, temporarily immersed in a world that didn't exist in this one. There were tenses and dirty dishes rotting in the sink, the world whizzed past in sights and sounds. Smoke rings and waves formed a halo around the mustard bed as her thoughts wandered upwards over the mountain. It was all making sense, now, this growing up. It meant being someone who you feared you'd become your whole life, and living with it. It meant cutting out neat shapes of the people you loved and hanging them in your room, never to touch them again. It meant buying hoards and hoards of books, because humans just did not suffice. It meant all those things you saw in cinemas and heard in stories, all of it combined, wrapped neatly in cellophane paper.


(flick your cigarette, baby, kiss me)

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

"It meant being someone who you feared you'd become your whole life, and living with it."

and that is why, I hate what I see in the mirror.

Annie said...

Daymmm. Neat, neat stuff...

Keep it rollin...