Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Dig into the Mattress

It was only yesterday,
When the sun peered onto my breathing body,
And the winds sighed into my face.
Sweet like lilacs,
This awakening.

Then, I  opened my eyes,
Blinked twice.
Hard like snapping fingers.
Between these sheets and me.
Heavy on my waist,
Yet, cool to the touch.

I pull them up around me,
Inhaling,
Pressing softly against my lips.
Like you.
Except you are gone.

My freckled shoulders,
My curls resting lightly on my chest.
I am still soft.

Awake with the birds,
The wind.
Each breath, I breathe,
I breathe with hope,
Passion.

As I stretch my arching back,
Tight like an angry fist.
My heels dig into the mattress.
Upwards and back,
Like an awkward grin.

I smile.
Breathing  lilacs.

Milk’s Gone Sour

You rose over me,
Like the 6 a.m. fog on the interstate.
Comforted by the occasional times we held one another yet,
Turned off by the lack of consistency.

I push through,
I realize that even the fog has a place.
As I still search for mine,
I am aware it is time to cut my losses.

To continue to make myself known in a world where everyone is a stranger smiling,
And pretending that they are happy, if not content with what they have.

Happy with good mornings and good night’s that were never really mine,
But, were just on loan like a flute that had passed through many hands, many lips.

Joyous for the time I so foolishly gave up impulsively.

Yet, what is the area of time,
When only ones gives it?
Should this be measured by beingĀ  tucked away carefully in a bedroom?

Figuring the base times height, times width of bodies left regurgitating last week’s leftovers.
When the market is closed,
The milks gone sour
And alone is what you feel.

Cabinet Space

Ahead of me a mirage,
A hunger for something,
I feel,
Will always be fifty feet ahead,
On the grey pavement.

The more my fingers reach,
The farther away it becomes.
We are nothing but displaced. 
Tired bodies resting like flat tires in a salvage yard.

I listen to a beautiful little voice upstairs.
Happy and singing.

I, too, want to sing, feel.
To be taken off this top shelf I have been hidden on.

Yet, I sit here, like an old mug, collecting dust,
That no one would want to ever display, nor drink from.

A waste of good cabinet space.
And without drink.

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