My feet hurt. Everything is poison lately, every day I find things to sigh about, things to cry over, expired parking tickets, children without mothers skipping on the lake.
My back is bubble wrap, every joint popping like cellophane. Today was draining and I sat cross legged in my car and we talked about you, how mad I was at you. I am so mad lately.
I want to be a regular. I want to sit in the same seat for 30 years in the same town and drink my latte. My wide eyes are starting to narrow. I want to be bleak.
And the little girl's mother said, "She wants her cup of stars." Indeed yes, Eleanor thought; indeed, so do I; a cup of stars, of course.
No comments:
Post a Comment