It was the cologne I think
I have this thing for the way something smelt.
So all the sterile, forgotten leapt back in intense colour.
I had to stand there for a moment, and fight for control.
The fuel and green fields, merciless sun.
Nothing on our mind.
A train thundering overhead
And a lazy cigarette in the bridge below.
Dangling legs.
Peace.
The intensity in everything you said and did.
Wall flowers on my library book.
3 am on a watch tower.
Blue smoke and minimal rooms.
I miss you.
I missed you while we sat there
And I looked at eagles from Prax
And pretended you didn’t exist,
While all I felt was intensely alive.
And on odd mornings,
Dire straits. A sunny balcony.
A busy street outside,
And me – with the day to myself,
I think of you and
I learn to grow old.
Gracefully.
Thursday
Tuesday
Infinite possibilities
A garish beach track mixed with an infurating digital voice that screams 'Its time to wake up' 'Its time to wake up' breaks the morning air.
I hit the snooze.
Silence.
There can never be a pleasant alarm clock sound. Ever.
The proverbial tomorrow is dawning over a yesterday hangover. I can feel yesterday still pulsing in my head. It can’t be time yet – it just can’t.
In inalterable regularity, almost merciless - the digital display mutely blinks, morphs into the next number – instantly the alarm scream rents the air again. 'Its time to...' - a trained slap shuts it up mid-shriek.
Slience.
The held breath turns to a sigh - muscles relax, the air stills - Deep hush.
I could be the only one alive on earth right now –
The bed is warm. The 7 am sun is streaking all over the curtains where last night's headlight patterns faded on and off – in the drowsy irregularity of nighttime traffic. A page lazily lifts on the half read book beside me and falls back again. A spider makes a slick move on the ceiling.
To be alive – alone, without a thought or need, lightly treading the boundaries of the harsh world of waking up, its time to hover, lithly, in that No man’s land of a misty in-between.
This morning floating feeling - its the 15 minutes of my life I’d kill for. It’s the only thing in the world that truly belongs to me - these lazy, unaccounted minutes of floating - to be random, delusional, unattached. To be free.
15 minutes of chasing cars.
I hit the snooze.
Silence.
There can never be a pleasant alarm clock sound. Ever.
The proverbial tomorrow is dawning over a yesterday hangover. I can feel yesterday still pulsing in my head. It can’t be time yet – it just can’t.
In inalterable regularity, almost merciless - the digital display mutely blinks, morphs into the next number – instantly the alarm scream rents the air again. 'Its time to...' - a trained slap shuts it up mid-shriek.
Slience.
The held breath turns to a sigh - muscles relax, the air stills - Deep hush.
I could be the only one alive on earth right now –
The bed is warm. The 7 am sun is streaking all over the curtains where last night's headlight patterns faded on and off – in the drowsy irregularity of nighttime traffic. A page lazily lifts on the half read book beside me and falls back again. A spider makes a slick move on the ceiling.
To be alive – alone, without a thought or need, lightly treading the boundaries of the harsh world of waking up, its time to hover, lithly, in that No man’s land of a misty in-between.
This morning floating feeling - its the 15 minutes of my life I’d kill for. It’s the only thing in the world that truly belongs to me - these lazy, unaccounted minutes of floating - to be random, delusional, unattached. To be free.
15 minutes of chasing cars.
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