Winter’s taciturn realm asks nothing. Crowned in hushed browns and somber greens, it rules by turns with quiet song then with pummeling winds obeying no one. It will be dark soon everyday for months Color hibernates, leaving behind its essence to purr in everything oblique light touches. In the hush, it asks us to see, and see again, to hear the echo of step over moss covered ground,
I want an IKEA life with you. One with gifts untold. I want a life with one of those big rolly carts - piled high with the small things that will make our lives maybe a little more comfortable. I accept the challenges of IKEA assemblages later.
Now that I’m nearly grown up sometimes the acid rain from years ago burns my eyes reminding me of how far we’ve travelled first together then apart forever connected and I won’t insist it is more bitter than sweet. There was and remains too much good through all of it.
I went out with the infinite. We swapped spit in the backseat of a jalopy. Explored ourselves while ignoring the movie. Walked home from the parkinglot, falling all over each other. Detoured through the park. Dallied on a bench.
This is not the person alone in the room. He woke early, before dawn although it was summer. The thought of talking to other people was not something he had to ruminate on. He knew if he did not leave his room, or if he walked down the steps of his building, closed the gate behind him, and then walked down the block along the busy morning street that people used to get from the sleeping neighborhoods to the south to the steam plumes and dawn glistening towers downtown that no one would say to him as much as good morning. He was himself an individual. He looked at his hands. Uneven fingers. Fingerprints that were not shared by anyone else. In his bones, DNA that was his own, and he kept all of this to himself. This is not this person, but the opposite.