Winternoises

They talk a lot about newness and how when you find it, you'll know and they say how everything old feels new and everything new feels wonderful. I don't feel new, and old is old is old and it makes me remember, sometimes when I don't want to. I don't feel new, but what I do feel is comfortable and soft and right. You don't feel like a revelation, you feel like a remembrance-- and I think I want to keep it that way.

When I said it I meant it; I stood on rocks that shuddered with the heavy waves. When I said it, I meant it: I'd step off into the sea if you said it too.

Two guests knock at my door; I do not know which to answer first. On one side there is Duty, smiling fresh-faced and expectant, believing in Her heart that She is alone. On the other side is Truth-- She sees Duty, respects Her place just as She supplants it. Two guests knock, and I don't know which I should greet; I know which one I will.

I'm sick of this limbo, this rough-hewn wandering between states of was and is. Warmth of your body in the dark blots out the rules I know I need to follow. In one week, I will return and break ties, waiting three more to tangle myself                                          up again, with you, once more.

And as we walked, I told you of the spaces in the snow and you told me of the spaces in the sky and I closed my eyes and I wished— wished we could sink ourselves deep into the warm dark earth and stay.

Four years later and I am still standing hands in pockets no idea how to make it stop crying

What am I doing, now? Let's see, I am: lying on my bed-- lights off-- staring at the red light of the smoke detector on the wall; I am listening to the three fans on the floor and the windowsill as they hum and whir white noise. I am lying on my bed feeling a bit nauseous from the three peppermint patties I ate earlier, or was it four? I am lying on my bed mouthing out the words to a conversation I might have with someone I might see sometime later. I am speaking nonsense to the air letting it get caught by the ever-present breath of three fans, who snatch the words from my lips and let them swoop around the room. What am I doing, now? I am s

comfortable the gladiator rage coursing, galloping fiery stampede a livid, living shiver writhing down the nerve endings shuddering in the bones flooding into the mouth and nose and throat and lungs corroding, burning, silence-spurning, comfortable.

slip quick into a cold white whisper of a nest; slept-in and home-made but repressed. slide the eager limbs into a waiting woven womb, a shelter that warms, as you warmly shelter me.

warily, I took a step through the door into the sleepy silent night coldly, it wrapped me up shuddered past me bit its icy teeth into my skin no; I cannot bring myself to release my breath drop my coat lie down I cannot let the wind spirit me away sing me soft to sleep.