From The Claw-footed Tub

Stepping down into the long white shag bath mat, my sinuses truly clear and sample what seems to be mulled cider from the next room. Like crop circles my feet sink and form damp impressions of my human hooves into this polyester blended slip catch.  I redraw the steam note on the mirror that has fogged beyond legibility. The periwinkle victorian wall paper patterns collecting beads of water as it would if on wax. Muffled violins limbo under the half inch crevasse between the creaky oil cured wood floor and the off white recessed boxed door. I brush my teeth while you sing along in your loudest voice to the soundtrack of a movie about people who write books.

The lights and computer screen flicker for a moment as the accordion radiator starts up. Melting the opposing frost from the above depression glass window that it sits beneath. The snow has now buried the streets and left its diamond like finger prints on anything inanimate. Webbing the absence and leasing it’s space for our eyes to rent.  I change into fleece bottoms and pass my humid hair through a plain white cotton tee as I begin to also sing and join you at the window to warm and stare at the deadest life that is winter. Swallowing us into blankets of white and sheets of ice. I run my fingers over the back of your hand and into the space between bones and webbing. Soft as the satin camisole you’ve found your way into, your hands converse with mine. This is it. The perfect moment. Forever our piece of time.

 

Joshua Tool – 08/15/12

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