All posts tagged: december

Day 26: Unboxing

Him: Her: i tipped a box over and white packing foam spilled out, tiny balled polystyrene rolling across the floor. soft protection. hard fragility. strength in numbers. do you wonder where snowflakes come from? who unboxed them and let them spill out? what have they been keeping all this time? maybe a blue bolt of fabric sky to be used next season, maybe they guard the glow of Spring. thereafter discarded, who shields them now? soft fragility. hard strength. protection in numbers. like people, just protecting ourselves.

Day 25: A Second

Her: hum. sip. blink. count the streetcars that pass. somewhere in the city a baby cries, where feathers ruffle over heat grates a person homeless huddles also. today falls nonchalant drifting all the windows shut. wind says hurry, frost the trees. oh. none here. the traffic lights will have to do. coat everything white and no one will know. bring them home. hum. sip. blink. slush. i count them unspectacular: two thousand for a second cup with you. Him:

Day 24: (S)mitten

Him:   Her:  forgotten things hide in crusting sidewalks, blowaway scarves and iced coffee cups crumpled                             don’t slip. here a mitten winter makes us forgetful and a little care less, melting puddles drown half-snuffed cigarette butts and                             don’t fall. there a mitten quietly sponges heavy and full, the way i fill when i think of you.

Day 23: Blankets

Him: … Her: in bed, soft down inside black sheeted warmth bare leg carelessly stretched, toasty toes. out doors, soft down sidewalk white sheeted cold bare cheek carefully hidden, ruddy nose. blanketing, muffled world here or there? days to stay in days to stay out, days to take a plus one to the chest blanketing, muffled world arms.

Day 22: How to find

Her: nights when the sheen of rain coats pavement in color reflected, light mellowed and a little lost. stars twinkling in puddles ripple blink ripple on the slope of curb no one cares to notice. we might have lost our way from looking up instead of letting quiet direction wet our feet. don’t fret, think steam rising milk skin wet pavement when you lean over your reflection in rain puddles. that is how i carry you with me. Him: …