An early morning sky resembles a history of love. There is yellow like jaundice, a bit diseased or perhaps an attempt at pushing out the infection left by another. It rises out of yellow and presses itself into blue. Mixed with bleach. A streak of orange which symbolizes the one that was unexpected but got away. Went away. Can one file a missing person’s report if the misplaced one chose to walk out of view?
A new way to make coffee this morning with alternative saturation process (suggested by magical friend). First gulp–because sipping is never an option–reveals a smoothness similar to the hair of a past love. Fingers always slid through it like a blond waterslide.
I know how to love books, poetry, the color green that can be seen on grasshoppers. I always remember how to love music, even when the words are too loud or fast to be deciphered. I can lose myself in the blend of instruments or hum of a singer’s voice slipping away from throat.
I need to be reminded the direction of how to walk. I tend to step backwards. I stop reading a book 10 pages before the end. I don’t want to feel like it’s over. Like I have to move on. I don’t like to move on. Practice the art of wavering; it eliminates the mourning process.
I can stare at leaves for hours. Or, Autumn leaves. The ones which are like mood rings. Hold them long enough and they shift color. Some are striped. Some are curved at the ends. Some have holes or are ripped or without stems. Some are so big, they fall apart when picked up the wrong way. Some are too small; they go unnoticed. Leaves are like bodies.
Blame the ghosts. They claim too much of our attention. The ghosts stick to walls and hide in the corners where cobwebs grow. The ghosts steal our taste buds, scratch our eyes out, stick bombs in mouth to numb our appetites. The ghosts turn off our alarm clocks, lock our bedroom doors, throw shadows into window panes to scare away our ability to walk away.