September 15, 2010

morning like a warning

I can always count on the insistent odors of city garbage marinating in morning dew to steal the thunder of a perfectly spiteful morning. I don't know if it was because it was crisper than I anticipated or because I caught the sun off-guard, before it was decent. It glared at me between brownstones and between the sparser branches of whatever kind of store-bought trees line this neighborhood as I made an apologetic exit.

I woke up twice in the middle of the night. I waited for him be the big spoon and clasped his hand against my chest. I have always liked sleeping like this because it feels like someone's got my back (figuratively and literally). And sometimes it's nice to feel a physical semblance of being taken care of for a change. I wake up again and the slope of his back in the semi darkness is a living valley between us.
He talks in his sleep and it's perfectly nonsensical and only somewhat coherent. I'm being told half a secret. The other half may as well be white noise. Regardless, I feel like I'm eavesdropping and I shouldn't be. My theory with sleep talkers is that they are wholly indecisive people to begin with. When one talks to himself it's generally either to talk himself out of something or into it. It's just a volley without the kinetic energy.

These are the murmurings of scars I haven't seen on the surface, not yet. They echo from sources long gone. It's the part I struggle with the most, deciphering these imitations of unmapped aspirations. They speak only in mono and at best travel on frequencies only cats and dogs know. I don't think I can keep up.
I fall asleep once more in the decadent fuzz and delay of our dormant affections.

It is always an AM departure that makes me miss my own bed. For starters, I'm still tired. Defenses are low. My brain might as well still be wrapped in the fleece blankets that remind me of waking up on mossy campgrounds. It is probably better this way. I don't need my brain to experience brusque commuters and ill-aimed goodbyes. I spend the thirty minute train ride wondering what an appropriate farewell entails today. Last month it was a swift kiss on the lips and my hand in your pocket. A car full of young professionals stared indignantly at my clothes from the night before and I didn't even care. Anything less than that feels three times more indignant today. In a daze, I give a nod and a hug. The brief sort of embrace that makes me think maybe I should have just stayed home. I'd rather skip it altogether.

It doesn't even feel like I'm in my own element until that acid stench of rust and coffee grinds hits my nostrils. I think that smell is embedded into the concrete. My boot heels chip away at it with every step.
The shrill voice of the train operator telling me there's no L train service between 8th ave and Brooklyn reminds me that my Element might be reconsidering my membership.

1 comment:

Pappelschnee said...

1. I'm a sad, that English is not my first language. 2. I'm lucky, that English is not my first language.
If it was, this might get to me even more, maybe totally.
Great writing.