life slows down.
we sit on the new porch that your mother's boyfriend built over the weekend. it's only twelve degrees, but the humidity is in my eyes, in my throat, in my blood. often we can't speak, and the eerie quiet sort of fades, into the backdrop, into the alleyway behind us. take a breath of the wet fog through my fingertips, my elbows, my ears, my eyelids. aches, pains, squish into the chair. heavy sleeves, heavy arms...i forgot to laugh at something. you're talking, fervently, soberly, drunkenly, "all things aside".
you're talking, i'm dreaming. i'm watching your fingertips, your elbow, your ear, your eyelid. one eyelid. open close. you make this face when you're confused... i wait for it. i'm first person, third person, oblivious, floating, sleeping, and you're making me tea.
wake up! where are you?
i was dreaming that you were writing me a story...