Sylvia was hiding under the couch. I’ve been looking for her. More like wondering where she’s been. I wasn’t surprised. But now I mean to finish the few poems of Ariel she has left to present me.
I woke up a half and hour ago and am already tired. The radiators are power washing the walls, the little men that I believe live in there. They seem to never sleep. they are always working and banging and washing and hammering. But their work makes me warm, so I touch my hand to the metal ribs and say thank you.
I have grand plans today. My day alone and I haven’t been alone alone in over a year. How shriveled I felt all those years ago without my family or many friends. I would hear car doors closing and pray it meant someone was coming for me. In the span of time it wasn’t so long ago. The feeling is an imprint upon me and inner scar the me with pointy teeth might rip back open. I wonder if we were all opened up if we’d look like ski mountains cut and carved and iced over and thawed? The scars on the sides of a hill.
There was a space I left this morning in zigzags, covering my tracks, turning around and around on myself because I was being watched by no one but myself.
I feel I should ride something – a wave, a high.
The thing about noticing so much is you can’t be offended when people don’t eat your pie.
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