Your smile reminds me
of a Christmas ornament, rarely seen and sometimes hidden but
stunningly there when one takes the time to search for
it. Your gestures remind me of railroad cars, an endless and
always moving string whistling by, reaching to dip into the
sunset and skim the horizon. Your gaze reminds me of a filthy
dollar bill I found in July, fluttering across the hot cement,
begging me to pick it up and dust it off. Your demeanor reminds
me of ice. Ice doesn’t cry. Ice doesn’t shake. But
it does, when it warms up to you, melt. Your voice reminds me
of the time I tried to inhale some variation of lead (it has
that busted and rusted sound, like you’ve spent too much
time swallowing pennies) and ended up puking whatever pride I
had left in me. Your fingers remind me too much of the days
where I drew stick figures in the margins of my notebook out of
extreme boredom before adding a tree and slowly hanging them
all. Give someone a noose and they’ll be highly insulted,
give them a pencil and paper and they might thank you (to me
they might as well be the same thing).
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