echofonic

i used to have this place that i'd go to every morning when i'd wake. i'd stumble out of bed and start a pot of coffee brewing, brush my teeth and stretch, and pull on some pajama bottoms and a dirty rock t-shirt. then i'd pour myself a strong black cup in my favorite mug, sit down at my desk, light up a cigarette, and open up my day. she was always waiting on the other end of the line. barina, in tight black jeans - that nervous smile and those chipped red fingernails that tapped ever deeper into my imperial heart with every stroke of her metric keys ...as we both grew slowly less and less afraid of pushing "enter".

that little grey box sat humming with the things we'd say - and secretly whispering between the lines at that which we could then only hint towards. i'd hang, with baited breath, on every word that came across that screen, as the fan switched on and buzzed beneath my fingertips.

that box - that electronic locket that opened up to show me that first pink and blurry image - is pushed away now. much like my thoughts, once dusted off and lifted from their shelves, now placed back in boxes filled with sand - packed tight so nothing shifts. it sits, covered in wires, in the bottom of a basket at the foot of my bed.