i have all sorts of things to say, you know, things i could say in all sorts of poetic ways with you know, words and such. but right now they fail me, through possibly fatigue, or the dramatic imagination i possess.
these are some words i said another time, when i had a better vocabulary and a stronger need to vocalize my hidden pain:
the wind was hot and sweet on the walk home. the scent of candied flower air. the hot nights here are brown, orange, umber, burnt sienna- a list that exhausts my Derwent collection.
our hands held and slipped, slick with sweat they'd made by touching. the heat makes conversation hard. the night we walk through slows and sticks, impossible confectioners mix of marshmallow, toffee, caramel.
i've tried before to make poems to capture to capture my experience of magnificance. they never make it past the first languid line, for to sit holding pen to paper, the waiting for inspiration, that makes droplets which stream down my back, under knees and between crossed legs and ankles.
i lay in bed smelling of my day stuck in airconditioned 9-5 drudgery, but a shower is almost too much work to warrant cool water on hot skin.
actually there's no hidden pain in that one. enjoy.