Sunday, July 11

creme dances in my coffee, enveloping itself in the dark liquid. i absorb the aroma and let my heavy eyelids descend. i am reminded of the way my mama used to smell. a sweet, crisp-clean scent, sometimes absorbed by my clothes. laying in bed those nights i could feel her love from wherever i was. I consider the love letter found at my door when i got home from work yesterday, a necklace fastened around it. she would know what to do. she always knew what to do, but i on the other hand never do anything. I'm uncertain which would be the wrong move and which would be the right so instead i stand in place and remain neither right nor wrong. i remain just where i am, making no decisions.
perhaps this is good. i should be able to make decisions on my own anyways.
i wish i could talk to someone about her, really talk. but instead i stay quiet. she used to let me talk. she would let me keep her up all night telling stories. I imagine my mouth ran a mile a minute telling stories of my childhood. she sat patiently, smiling. her chin rested on her palm, filling my cup of hot cocoa every now and again until i grew so tired i could barely keep my head off the kitchen table.

i burry my head in my pillow. i've been griping this mental curling iron much too long today.
and.. my coffee has gone cold. damn.

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