Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

g m t

There are little reminders of you scattered in the most random of places, strands of hair open to my interpretation.

And when I see them, I pick them apart from the noise, jumbles of dead trees and India ink, coffee stains and dirt. They’re not small enough to be considered inconsequential, not large enough for all the fuss, so I sit there with them firmly clasped in my palms. My fingers unfurl them from handwriting to the shortest distance between two points, the strands curl back into their original shape the moment I let go. For a few moments they glisten in a peculiar way, underneath the lamplight they seem almost ethereal, strings taken from the very fabric of reality at the points where it begins to fray.

And how it seems to me that you are nothing more than that, some sort of anomalous individual formed when the  molecules arranged themselves in that particular way; someone with two hands, two feet, and two eyes all designed to contradict everything wrong that I still consider right. But how it seems to me that you are so much more than that, undeniably human and indefatigable in your pursuit of nothing more than the ability to see yourself in the reflected light of glass, puddles, and photographs without any twinge of remorse. I’m left only with remnants, my own explanations of everything you are, everything you want to be, residue gracing the ridges in my fingertips. Coarsely smooth, quietly fragrant.

And when a  wind carrying your scent lazily drifts past me, I’m fooled. For one happy instance, I’m fooled into forgetting the long-gone clouds of wrinkled fabric, arranged in a manner conforming to your body on an uncomfortably barren bed. Pressure starts to build in the wells of my chest, pushing its way outwards, puncturing vessels and cracking ribs in a ruthless ploy for self-pity. I’m carried away by the gusts, abused by the lightning, pelted and pricked by the downpours. There is a part of me that succumbs to those depths, saved only by reassurances scattered throughout the sea.

And though I’ll experience days that seem like two; twenty four sets of sixty segmented and lived in such a way that makes them feel like forty eight, those agonizing waits between dial tones or arrival times, they have little bearing on what carries the weight. There is an irrevocable sincerity in what is felt as the memory of your presence spreads through my skin, even if it is prefaced by notions enough to confuse and disorient the truth. Your presence will always be inherent,  implied by the leftovers of visits cut short. Our lives are offset by those imaginary lines in the sky, established by Greenwich Means, that divide our world into simple zones. While you think in Eastern Standard Time, I’m thinking in Central, accompanied only by what you left an hour behind you. The strands of hair, scattered in the most random of places, little reminders open to my interpretation.

And that’s enough for now.

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