I like summer tomatoes. And the lingering hours between sunset and sundown. The smell of the skin just warmed by the sun and the cold river water cutting my breathe.
I like the glass of red poured after a long day, and the smell of vanilla. There are candles lit and a world exploding inside of me, but on the surface I am calm, and nice and charming, always with the conversation going, even when dams are broken and legs are shivering and my lungs are not mine and the pain is blood and no one is waiting on the other side.
It's a dry Merlot and the headache is gone or just starting and I need to remember 1-2-3-4 in, 1-2-3-4 out. Then I do, and I sent another email, and I'm sipping my wine and my mind is on a certain bridge in Oxford and a moment in London, and the air burns going in, so I think tears are just a firewoman reaction.
It's all within the reach of my fingers, but the doors are closed and ajar and I don't want to get up. How easy is to say I am damaged, knowing that it will inspire fear and they will leave and you'll know you were right, that people leave when you push them to the curve?
There's a rippen banana on the table, on a plate that I imagine I bought from Portugal, but it's from the corner shop - and I wonder who will ever remember that I only like unripe nectarines?
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