night owl

past 1 a.m.

i've become nocturnal. i keep my nose pinned to the crack in the library book. the smell reminds me of third grade and broken teeth. my eyes trace every fragment over and over again, like a finger sobriety test. and since when have i become so brave? blowing smoke off my lips, watching it dance in thin air. deliberately planting sour seeds in my mouth. going anyway because that car will stop for me. plots and plans, experimental everything. i'll keep this up until it wilts, until i get bored again.

my hair looks like a cobweb mess. there is no wind tonight. just cold and spring. downstairs is quiet. i'm alone, tiptoeing across the honey wood floors to the kitchen. i pour a cup of rice "milk", place it on the counter, and stand there for good five minutes. my bones are begging for something. almost 2 a.m. and nothing is getting done. between tiny movements and semi-smiles, i remember that day in my car. we were drenched in sticky southern sweat and you told us you had dreams. forget it. i down the liquid in sixty seconds. i counted because i wanted nothing better to think about. dickinson can't be put off much longer. i'm testing out how close i can get to almost disappointing someone.