five a.m.
sat up in bed the cold sweat across my
forehead again.
i think about calling my best friend but
he's probably sleeping, making his own living, suffering in his own way
we don't talk about it anymore. i don't even know the last time the words met sliding off our lips like the wasted teardrops we both drip from time to time day to day
he
smiles sometimes and tells me [laughing]
he doesn't know who he is either but
i know who he is. or at least who he is to me.

anyways, my room smelled like winter,
cold air hard and sharp in my chest i was
breathing in gasps
the sheets were freezing
ani was low on the stereo, and i thought about you
your face
your painting the way you
wear your clothes
like skirts over pants and twisty hair
eyes the same colour as your skin
squint as you hold the brush your cheeks not flushed at all just perfectly perfect, jawline sharp and sturdy.

we painted together today
i wanted to impress you
i wanted to say
"hey, daniella, i love the way you smile."
but i didn't.

i wonder if you write or think like i do
about things like
why my reflection is always upside down in a spoon.

i watch you sometimes
i can see lilacs and lace spring up in your footsteps, or the way you laughed when i gave you pedro, or just the way you laugh for no reason at all. like a warm day out in the snow, bright and brilliant and dazzling.


you must be a spoon.

03/21/2002

Posted on 03/21/2002
Copyright © 2024 Brynn Dizack