fifty-two (the craft of loneliness)

by nike, February 22, 2015

litSome afternoons I would sit on the back deck and do nothing for so long that the light would fall out of the world.

There is a moment, unfixable, between day and night, when you still believe you can see the wrens darting about. But then the light is truly gone, and you aren’t sure whether that last thing you saw, moving quickly towards you, was a bird or a knife.

Some afternoons I would wait for night to fall.

Some things you know all your life. Or seem to, even if you’ve never experienced them. The taste of home (boiled eggs, soft in the belly; warm toast; potatoes mashed with a spoonful of butter). The smell of cleanliness. The weight of a bird; the feel of it resting in your pocket.

Some afternoons I would wait to fall.

The bird in your pocket has a heart that beats so fast that it thrums. If you put the tip of your finger against its breast, you might know what it’s like to be truly afraid.

Some afternoons, I waited. I fell.

You sit in the dark, waiting to hear someone who loves you strike a match. To smell the spit of sulphur. To smell the beloved forest, burning.


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    • March 28, 2015

    Beautiful writing:)

      • Replay Cancel Replay
      • March 28, 2015

      Thank you!!

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