laying in bed the other night i found myself thinking: this has become a common occurrence. laying there, still clothed- awake. darkness and quiet, or as quiet as it gets on that busy urban line. i don't know if it's sadness in those moments that keeps me listening to my breath. is it sadness or loneliness or knowing that the air is settling into the cracks of my empty three rooms?
cats move without noise, like ghosts passing through walls, like wind carrying souls. alone with my self-
self, hello.
- his silence is audible. a pebble perhaps? stuck in the sweet, pink pads, click-clacking on hardwood. (there's a joke in there, only the kindred know.) i wish he knew i was listening, that my attention was his, only. for a moment it was, but then: breath. traffic. darkness.
it's almost tactile. no, not almost- is. i can feel everything: the softness of linens far past-due for washing, the prick of feathers pushing toward fresh air; comfort versus restraint. yes. on the outside there is both comfort and restraint, their game of hide and seek. it's everywhere these days: that frayed thread, that unlaced shoe, that matted mess of twine.
marc chagall
1 comment:
I love that Kundera quote!
So glad you're writing again, darlin.
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