Creative Cardinal #4
I always picture him playing a trombone, his long, sweet hands drifting across the brass with the carress of a lover, swaying in and out in bliss-inspiring rhythms of jazz. I will see him this way forever, even if I've never had the pleasure of watching his black curls brush the crest of the mouthpiece... even if he hasn't picked up a trombone in years. Still, he is my band nerd. There is something resoundingly musical in boy's gentleness, and when you find yourself trusting one, it's like all the cherubs of the world came down to sing to you at once.
He tried to sing to me once. I think I shoved a bowl of doughnuts in his mouth.
The screen door clicks and he is gone, back to the party. His lips will taste like rum later. A friend puts her smooth hands around my shoulders, holding me close so that she can whisper in my ear: "He's one tall glass of water." I don't know what it means, but it still seems infinitely hilarious. Her laughter, much more graceful, has the texture of bells.
Even the wind that grabs her cigarette smoke is close to orchestral. In the fading twilight I look into her eyes and see them glimmering like indigo. Color contacts, making them seem like her irises have been replaced with delicately carved jewels. A creature from the creased pages of my fantasy novel, somehow coming and talking and laughing with me like I'm deserving of notice.
They all think I'm deserving of notice. This thought makes me pause a moment. It's still somehwat...unnerving.
Her hand is gone, gone to rolling another cigarette and pulling up a wicker lawn chair in a garden full of bamboo and co-op compost. Her toenail polish is neon green, like color of a radioactive tree frog. Her boyfriend is away from the summer and she resumes a conversation about something infuriating he said over the phone but I can hardly listen. She has hair the color of Mondays and tender, laughing lips that tear me up inside when she kisses my cheek. Sometimes, she sits on her porch, one hand stroking the neck of an out-of-tune guitar. The moment is a picture, but more so. I'm waiting for the frame to drop, for the shutter to click, for the thumbtack to stab into us and afix this night to somebody's bulletin board. Friend, I think to myself, when did I get good at making friends? She takes a long drag on her cigarette, silhouetted against the last strands of trembling daylight. There's a poem in this day that I'm not adaquate to write.
These are the moments that I treasure most in life, moments frozen on the damp tips of twined cloud fingers that treat every fallen sunbeam like another playground slide. This feeling passes, of course. It always passes. She steps inside and I am left alone on the porch, my bare feet wriggling. Some disgustingly repetitive technofunk drifts out the window and I know, I just know, that he's trying to dance. This thought makes me groan a little. But I don't mind, not really. It's enough to know that his hands will be waiting when the night is gone.
Somewhere, in my mind's eye, my man is playing his trombone. Jazz, just for me...the thread that connects us through the distance of a door. Someone comes out again, smiling. "Come on," her voice is a whisper, "They're all waiting for you."
Happy Birthday, I tell myself, and I step inside.
He tried to sing to me once. I think I shoved a bowl of doughnuts in his mouth.
The screen door clicks and he is gone, back to the party. His lips will taste like rum later. A friend puts her smooth hands around my shoulders, holding me close so that she can whisper in my ear: "He's one tall glass of water." I don't know what it means, but it still seems infinitely hilarious. Her laughter, much more graceful, has the texture of bells.
Even the wind that grabs her cigarette smoke is close to orchestral. In the fading twilight I look into her eyes and see them glimmering like indigo. Color contacts, making them seem like her irises have been replaced with delicately carved jewels. A creature from the creased pages of my fantasy novel, somehow coming and talking and laughing with me like I'm deserving of notice.
They all think I'm deserving of notice. This thought makes me pause a moment. It's still somehwat...unnerving.
Her hand is gone, gone to rolling another cigarette and pulling up a wicker lawn chair in a garden full of bamboo and co-op compost. Her toenail polish is neon green, like color of a radioactive tree frog. Her boyfriend is away from the summer and she resumes a conversation about something infuriating he said over the phone but I can hardly listen. She has hair the color of Mondays and tender, laughing lips that tear me up inside when she kisses my cheek. Sometimes, she sits on her porch, one hand stroking the neck of an out-of-tune guitar. The moment is a picture, but more so. I'm waiting for the frame to drop, for the shutter to click, for the thumbtack to stab into us and afix this night to somebody's bulletin board. Friend, I think to myself, when did I get good at making friends? She takes a long drag on her cigarette, silhouetted against the last strands of trembling daylight. There's a poem in this day that I'm not adaquate to write.
These are the moments that I treasure most in life, moments frozen on the damp tips of twined cloud fingers that treat every fallen sunbeam like another playground slide. This feeling passes, of course. It always passes. She steps inside and I am left alone on the porch, my bare feet wriggling. Some disgustingly repetitive technofunk drifts out the window and I know, I just know, that he's trying to dance. This thought makes me groan a little. But I don't mind, not really. It's enough to know that his hands will be waiting when the night is gone.
Somewhere, in my mind's eye, my man is playing his trombone. Jazz, just for me...the thread that connects us through the distance of a door. Someone comes out again, smiling. "Come on," her voice is a whisper, "They're all waiting for you."
Happy Birthday, I tell myself, and I step inside.
posted by Anonymous at 3:35 PM
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