Talking

I feel timid in the presence of unexpected vowels and consonants especially when molded from inside of the cavernous expanse of a stranger’s mouth. And he is very odd. Especially, with how he can determine unprovoked, unstartled, unnoticed to being a conversation with a mess of seventeen year old fears and anxieties. Then, odder, to seamlessly knot more letters together and continue my stumbling over and around the syrupy responses coating the underside of my cotton tongue. Worst, then, to watch him listen as though I was carving marble slabs instead of clumsily gluing macaroni pieces into the shape of celestial bodies. His connotation seems to be implying he would like to see my stars but I know what reality sounds like and I know what he sounds like. But what have I been hearing?

Oddest is how he stops so symmetrically to how he starts: with no outer tug or breeze or changing of tides. Just stops. His eyes find other beds to rest on as my sheets get chilled at night. His words find other ears to sneak into while mine are still contemplating his perfection and searching the yellow pages for a forger adequate enough to create a fair mockery. “On” seems to lack scenery but maybe it is where I need to be moving now. I could abstain from watching predictable orbits of the sun as it sinks down to kiss the horizon goodbye each night. I could stop burning scenes of foggy red dripping down to lighter shades of yellow and orange which eventually subside to bed time blues into my eyes. I could stop pretending to be the tiny pin pricks of grass that support my feet then gleefully run up the hill, away from me, to it. I could but it gets so cold this time of year.

SS

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