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Here’s on feeling alive:
Indigo orchestrates the un-risen sun.
I smile because the tap-fresh water on my wrists cools my blood just right,
She smiles because the icy ocean breeze makes her face burn.
It all echoes, bounces from the page, as only real things can.
The linen that is pressed against my calf,
The heavy laundry-basket resting on my thigh,
The slippery tiles under my left foot.
It‘ll curl into another never-summoned memory soon, a memory that gets one verse not six, a shimmering shard in a waste glass container.
The pen on my belt stabs my hipbone.
My hair is still messy with sleep.
My right foot steady, on the the little stool I needed
To reach the mirror and brush my teeth as a kid.
© Nachtschwärmer
I smile because the tap-fresh water on my wrists cools my blood just right,
She smiles because the icy ocean breeze makes her face burn.
It all echoes, bounces from the page, as only real things can.
The linen that is pressed against my calf,
The heavy laundry-basket resting on my thigh,
The slippery tiles under my left foot.
It‘ll curl into another never-summoned memory soon, a memory that gets one verse not six, a shimmering shard in a waste glass container.
The pen on my belt stabs my hipbone.
My hair is still messy with sleep.
My right foot steady, on the the little stool I needed
To reach the mirror and brush my teeth as a kid.
© Nachtschwärmer
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