i wish i could write poetry. stilted phrases and hiccups. make you see the words i write, not just have you read them.
when i talk about a heater, see the whole apartment. the scowl of winter. scuffed hardwood floors and bare toes. fire escapes and a mug of tea i probably won’t drink. the leaves leave an aftertaste after cooling after all.
when i mention a car ride, feel the warm wind through the window turning your hair into cat o’ nine tails. whips. bare legs sucking up vitamin D, deprived from the long cold. soaked in sun ’til they bloat. you’re not driving and for once you’re glad for that. you’re always the one driving. chauffeur. chaperone.
when i talk of love…believe me.
(i was never that good, though)