a better place;
i couldn’t think of a better place to say these things. i sat down by the edge of the bed, and i folded my arms and unfolded them. i placed my hands on my knees and looked at a bird on the wall—a bird printed on a yellowed tin plaque which was not old at all. i didn’t need to have proper posture at that moment, but i figured a serious stance might help my delivery.
(and i had to wait.)
i waited, because words floated inside but failed to manifest. i could hear perfectly formed sentences resonate deep inside my skull, yet i knew it would take hours before i could voice them. “please read my mind,” i’d implore tragically to myself, but even that could not be revealed.
i lifted my hands slightly to remind me of them, and i saw my fingers cast shadows on my thighs. the lines were not burns, but for a moment i thought they would never disappear. the shadows ran through my legs and to the tip of my toes until i was safely anchored to the ground. the floor had always seemed to shine at that spot; that’s how a routine of rousing and sleeping left a mark.
i couldn’t think of a better place to say these things, but i couldn’t find a way to say them. when i finally sensed the words moving towards my lips, i no longer knew where my hands were, and i could hear your breath rising and falling with such ease and calm that i could never disturb it with my voice.
