There was all of the time spent half-drunk on the fumes of your gaze, taking the moments when it shifted to catch a breath and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to settle the frantic whizzing of my brain. Looking steadier than I should have, certainly, a three-legged cat on a greased ridgepole. Not time wasted, but a lot of it spent nonetheless.
On foggy mornings I might eventually consider that the spins that you kept in the bottom of your eyelids could have led in a different direction. I think I would find myself remembering them fondly in that case, like an old blanket that was very soft in memory but when on hand, pulled out of an attic full of boxes, also gives a rash.
No comments:
Post a Comment