Counting the shapes traced along my spine,
I fall to sleep
Distantly, I begin to hear the soft shuffling of the railway line
The train always seems uncomfortable at these odd hours
Huffing hushed complaints that form clouds over its head
I see it often
Travelling from one corner of my egg-wash ceiling
To the other
When I am awake at these hours,
I often seem to be listening to old memos.
Though, not very closely.
It is more as if
They are floating storm clouds
Circling around my lighthouse being
And when I have run out of memos to hazily listen to,
My dear pruned heart looks to the telephone directories.
The implacable bulb up in my head
Has swallowed and gulped every last digit
So that now I don't remember them
They are as loose safety pins holding together the hem of my ‘occasions’ dress.
My mother has named it so.
I do not know the names etched alongside these numbers
Yet I do recall their voices
It is them that I hear in the old purple memos
It is them that I grip in orange memory
In whirlpools around and through my belly
Oh how lonely you must be,
Your wine stained upon your head;
While I lie awake in the company
Of myself, the train, and my bed
I watch
As the little sailor-boy approaches
The weathered rocks at my feet
He tips his hat,
Not meeting my eyes,
Then navigates his gaze towards you.
He melts into a pool of wine,
Merlot, you say,
After a taste
Same as the tears that
Now, frame your lips,
Now, fall to your neck
Now burst as a dam at the base of your chest.
My arms burn vermillion,
Cradling the wine at your chin
As the train leaves my ceiling,
It returns to its place upon my window
My heart shivers silently,
Waiting for the clouds to go
~jhinuk