When I feel melancholic, I need to hear my grandmother’s voice. Needles pricking at my tear ducts.

011, 7, 495, 914, 4223

Every number has a different noise.


Sometimes, Oftentimes I feel like crying when I call her.  Tonight I didn’t even hear her.

I’ve never been able to hold a conversation with my grandfather for more than 6 minutes. Today it was 20.

There’s nothing to soothe.  I am all salve and no tea.

I am honey and lemon and suckle.

I push my feet underneath my paisley blanket, thinking it’ll warm up my boney toes.  It doesn’t, until I catwrap them.

The overhead light is on and it’s too bright, but gets darker if I stop my eyes from focusing on it. Peripheral vision makes me focus on a bright red light emanating from its’ position on my giant heater.  It is foreign. No wood, no paint: metal.

Like a nazi near Moscow.

We talk about the weather or their health.  My grandmother is anxious.  He is on a balancing beam.

They haven’t seen snow yet but are on a break from teaching for some government-sponsored holiday for a week.

I haven’t told them I am waiting for Cuba.

They haven’t seen my new, short hair.

I want to build caves for them made of kittens and yarn, and doctors wading through the yarn to dote on them like lovers.  I want to play card games.

I want to be the Ass.

I want cold tea.

I want a peaceful sleep.



2 thoughts on “fitful

Gripe here!

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