July 7, 2003
Metaphor
I am State Route 50 at night, the pavement that could be smoking and curling under your tires, for all you can see the road through your rear view mirror, full of darkness and glare.
I am dried and crushed red peppers, I am that piercing flavor on your tongue that stays, hangs on, long past the deep drink of iced tea.
I am a papercut, I am nagging and slight and too insignificant to be bandaged, to be medicated. I'm a head cold, like.
I am your new white sheets and your skin full of colour contrasted against them. I am that stubble on your cheeks, that persistent tickle, rub, right.
I am the rain that came pouring down on us, the flood in the basement, the sticks and leaves and mud that crept between our toes and swirled around our ankles. I am the drain, sucking, pleading, whose mouth is never big enough for her hunger.
I am the sun that shined afterward, to our surprise and chagrin.
What were you doing, with your delicate hands, undressing? You had to have known, I was already undressed.
astera at 5:10 p.m.