pastura

If I've got somewhere to go, it doesn't seem to matter this morning. All the appointments in the world will wait for your bleary eyes, your lips feeling for my face and placing a feathery kiss beside my nose. When your lashes settle again, fanned against your cheek, it takes every fiber of my lean discipline not to fold myself back into the blankets with you. Your curly locks, sprayed across the glow of the pillow, offer a tangled cocoon I could lose myself in until the sun comes up, but I've got to be on the road before the windows turn gray.

The half-life of the hybrid car gets me where I have to be while the road is still stretching itself out for the early rush. In the dark of an empty seven-story building, the caffeine wakes my blood before it even considers my head, and I'm wishing you were here, hidden in the shadows of one these long diagonal halls. If I had something soft to press into, amidst all these hard walls, I might just feel human. The humid pressure of your familiar hands could wake the rest of me that has so long been asleep. But for now, I contort in my chair until the milk of my muscles has tempered the spice in my veins and settle in for a long...day...dream.


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within the padded walls of her mind
there are answers to long mathematical equations -
formulas cluttered with greek letters,
scrawled in red and repeating.
"icthus" and "pi" to a trillion places,
an alchemy of meaningless symbols.
but she's never been a fan of numbers
and no longer concedes to belief in figures.
the cult of primacy, hypothetical dogma -
it all breaks down when exposed to enough oxygen,
and this room needs a little airing out.
enough light and open atmosphere
to bleach the stains, the scribble of a careless hand.
three days in the wash of an easterly wind,
more than she's had in a month of Sundays,
and the cure waits in the white chaos of clouds.