These are the makings of a life. The late nights and early mornings. Asleep on trains and cars and buses, awake and restless at all the wrong times. Bodies in stasis, in motion, in limbo. Suspended.
Chest bones visible, hands cupped around the curvature of hipbones quieting the mind. Frenetic minds and fingers, typing away towards creative infinity.
Cloth napkins ironed and pressed. Evian bottles (room temperature) spread across kitchen tables and counters of my distant memory, my childhood and adolescence.
Flank steak and oven-baked potatoes on Fridays, translucent liquid oozing delicately from the spaces pricked by fork fingers. Cranberry grape juice in Kiddush cups, stolen sips of bitter lukewarm wine.
Yearning for hours, the radiating sensation of skin against skin, crossed ankles and fumbling feet beneath bars tools and covers. An intimacy derived from the rigidity of meeting planners, blocks of time between the constructions of a life. A self exists there. A body with a range of emotions and ideas, vacillating between the mania of creativity and the depression of unending rote necessities.
Drenched beneath shame for the body that carries her.