September 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Four | ||||||||
Brent McKnight | ||||||||
tentative I can see up the street almost a mile in either direction without seeing a pair of headlights. the frozen breeze drives sleep out of my eyes and mind. a cacophony of an unseen freeway, brittle scattering leaves, my own breathing and footfalls as dead as a watercolor still life. for the second time tonight I just left the house six blocks over from my own. the first time you leaped up to hug me with my front foot out the door after barely a dozen words between us all night, the “hope I’ll see you again soon,” doubling the word count, ringing in my ears. you scarcely manifested any interest in the evenings other departures, and I think I caught you watching me from the opposite wall in mid-conversation. at home, in bed, lights out, covers tight around my chin, I was barely able to blink, let alone sleep. tossed by clothes back on heading back, the rehearsed excuse “tried to sleep, didn’t work,” echoing as flimsy as it was. during a rehashed movie everyone else dropped off like poisoned flies until the two of us were left awake. an uncomfortable silence in the blue light of the empty tv screen and I moved out, “to wander the streets, see what ruckus I can find.” your eyes, wide open and liquid, offered desire to come along, an early morning sense of obligation keeping you housebound. a door shuts, light drops of rain sticking to my jacket. |