Coalescence


Leaves on the trees outside thrash into a unified army in the cruel unloving wind. A gray hair is clinging for life on the edge of my favorite hot cocoa mug. The mug is old, well loved and cracked, read a thousand times known verbatim by heart then re-read again. The hot chocolate is warm, a liquid manifestation of the blanket clutching my feet. The hair is not mine. A whisper of a smile across my silicon teeth as my creaking finger tenderly pulls the hair slowly, lovingly away. Shuffling in the hallway. I glance from my perch on the couch to the floor. Toenails, everywhere I see these with calm clarity, and know they're not mine. The cry outside is relentless but seems less threatening somehow. He shuffles in. Slippers, a memory of bright blue, now the faded blue-gray of yesterday's rainy newspaper. Weren't those slippers a Christmas gift to him/me? The details are unfocused and unimportant as the names in a wonderful love story. Age made up of endless day-by-day shots all the same, all times, all wanting, lusting, wanting. Time like an exotic flower, haphazardly tended by the unending sleepless nights and uniform Bic pen days piled high and tucked away. You realize suddenly the flower's dead and you are nothing but Depends, dentures and bi-focals (he's funny muttering and shuffling about looking for His.) Blind since the day we met, equally as forgetful. He putters on a detour to the kitchen and returns with whipped cream (my favorite) and lets the can fart out some more. He knows me, an my sweet teeth, and me and my hating wind, and I know him and his glasses. I watch for a flicker of a moment as the liquid chocolate swirls in the cream. Enveloping each other becoming a single solution. For the first time the wind and the trees hugged each other. I, popping and creaking, slowly rise off my perch, cast aside the cocoa and blanket and grab his glasses from beneath me. He laughed a genuine belly chuckle as I put the frame on his age spotted nose and behind his elongated adorable ears. A hug and a kiss like we were twenty. A funny moment-we remember when our bodies and minds were perfect and we kept our toenails clean and in our own space. Twenty, remember then? Remember when everything was ticking clocks, confusing, screaming time? We are old now, we are old and well loved and known verbatim but read once more just because it is our favorite. We are dying. We have time. The wind blows on. I don't mind.




Poetry by Coneja Linda
Read 565 times
Written on 2009-08-10 at 17:30

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