Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Gray, Friday Night Eyes

Chenille, sweet smelling and soft.
Falls lightly around my bare shoulder,
Along with the darkness outside my window.
I listen as the October leaves scatter,
Like beetles on the sidewalk.

My gray, Friday night eyes hang heavy,
As if they were sandy curtains ready to close.
I breathe in.
I breathe out,
Along with the black sky and with the dead leaves,

As the wind chimes outside,
Play lullabies I have never heard.
I try to name them.
As my fingers rest on my stomach.
They rise with each breath, with each hard blink.

I fight the sleep that is before me.
I am filled with thoughts of the purple,
Kenneth Cole dress shirt you wore today.
And the eggshell colored buttons that kept it closed.
The way you glance at me when you think I don’t notice.
I can almost feel the cool sharpness of their edges between my fingers.
As your breath soon becomes mistaken for mine.
I dream.


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2 thoughts on “Gray, Friday Night Eyes

  1. Nice work, well done.

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