wena

There is this laundry turning and tumbling in the blue of a warm wash hum, and similar to the urge to suck my thumb, I kind of want to spin into oblivion like my socks and underwear. Sometimes the city is far too big – big like a mattress that has to be carried upstairs, big like a secret that you’ve kept for twelve years, big like oppression and big like depression and big like overwhelming, lung impaling happiness. Perhaps I’m attracted to the cleaning going on in the other room because I can’t decide whether I’m washing or drying or just pie-in-the-skying and waiting for sleep while wishing there was so much more life before tomorrow.

I keep sitting on the subway (up down, E, V, down up) and staring at people – all these people, these infinite people with infinite lives and rashes and sores and secrets and memories and smells and voices and beauty and pain and sometimes, yes sometimes, fascinating faces. And then they catch me staring and they stare back and it feels like I’m looking into the eyes of a cheetah. I am prey. Tiny tiny prey. But I can’t help but look at you! I yell in my head. My eyes go back to my feet on the floor and the rivulets of rain/piss/coffee/juice/tears that always seem to slick the bottom layer of public spaces. It’s always too hot in the subway.

I’m missing a spoon and there is nothing more that I want right now than to have it back in my vicinity. It’s hard to scoop sleep out of the clouds with it gone.

Sometimes, when i'm peeling an orange, I cross my toes that there will be an apple inside. And sometimes, when I'm exiting the subway at 53rd and Lexington, I cross my eyes that I'll emerge into a real jungle instead of the urban one. And sometimes, when I'm walking through Washington Square Park, I cross my personality traits in hopes that I will levitate.

cheek to pillow.