What of my tangerine ties? My memorabilia built like leggos in my mind. My molasses past, thick as quick sand, civily stormy at best. I look at the orange seats on the subway, fold my legs underneath in a reassurance of youth, tuck my notebook under my arm and allow the stale air to bring me back, sever the now, sidle along a present that I refuted, refused and another present, both empty and bold (a bitten cafe au lait, sucking back at the wind).
Sometimes, I allow myself to go back, though it will later ache, I let loose the reigns on my thoughts, galloping towards warm snow, hollow hotels, strawberries and cream, empty cans, framed photographs, choreographed dances, dirt roads. The roads have been paved, I am told, the brick house painted a lime green (what does green mean? life, again, perhaps, or the semi-sweet of mint, the bittersweet of survivil). Sometimes, I allow myself to wallow in a world that is no longer my own, to drag my feet through that molasses past, what will always be a warmer place.
But warmth, in all of its glory, could not provide the steam, the heat. It was comfortable, rather than thrilling, constant rather than a scalding cold. Is it wrong to miss so fiercely? Sometimes, some days, some moments, I feel like I am violating, I am betraying if only in my scattered mind. But my loyalties, split apart, severed, siamese at best, question mark these thoughts. I am told by a friend, when curled around my pillow, that I myself look like a question mark: I am following the form of my heart.
Waitressing is wearing me out. I want to begin the next stage of my life, release myself from this in-between where I cuddle with my past, wonder at my present, wish on everything (not just stars but also street signs, full moons and red wine, fleshy arms, flashing storms). I am looking for the dawn. My dawn. Doe-eyed, distant, gated.
