from a quiet place

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rainy days are good to be awake in but hard to wake up to. i squeeze out the air between my body and the sheets and listen to the cat breathing against me, her back pressed to my ear so i am audience to the incessant gurgling of vet-prescribed diet in their gastrointestinal pilgrimage toward the litter box.

it is the first day of spring, and i feel like i should be somewhere not quite here.


maybe it’s nostalgia for atlantis. somewhere between childhood and not-quite-womanhood. a somewhere i can only watch from a distance but will not be granted entrance.


the rain hasn’t stopped, just holding its breath. waiting for me to face its ashen shawl wrapped around the sky’s eggshell bosom.

i am not in the land-of-the-in-between, just the age-of-now and feeling frighteningly young.


he was part of a younger—and simultaneously, an “older”—me and i am hardly eighteen years old and smitten with the world. or with him.


the rain reminds me of home, of something vibrant and fragile and full of the scents of summer, of seeing a turquoise dusk through tear-laden eyes. happy tears, the kind that arrives unannounced when you  realize that you have always known what you were looking for, when you thought you’d lost a friend and open the door to find him standing there, a sheepish, little boy’s smile in his eyes and waiting for your heart to burst into song. all over again. a tardy atonement.

the rain makes me feel ageless.


i face him in an almost-summer dress. pale green and patterned just so that you can’t see the leaves and tendrils until you are up close. a tango is danced up close. i blush and feel anachronistic in this pale green dress and not-quite-woman body.  he laughs and talks and talks of nothing in particular, smiting words out of the grey and blurred air above the dance floor, stirring the words with the rain on the window pane.


he sits around the corner to me, the two of us making a right triangle with one apex of the table, a garbage can in the silence between our bodies. i inhale the smoke the patrons exhaled and catch glimpses of the singer through the forest of wine bottle necks, her words and the smoke wrap around each other. we are only here for an hour, and tomorrow it will seem as if we’ve never lived tonight at all. a fraction of a night scene.

i pull the rain around my shoulders and watch his words wash into thousands of concave slivers on the water. a land of ephemeral and infinite silence.


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