 |
| An overcast moody day after two days of rain; no matter how many times I press my forefinger into the divet on my forehead it remains with the slightest emotion or slant of sun. I have my father's squint without the masculine, bristling eyebrows. I smoked for a long time. I want a cigarette. Every day I wake and touch the blanket, press my feet against the pillowy mattress, address myself to the physical world. I am not here, though. That last picture of me looks like someone already dead. A photo of someone you remember. Time slips by and I spin untouched in its endless encompassing everything always forever. Where am I? Today, I was at the park. |
Post a Comment