short tired justwrite (2010!)

I still have feathers between my teeth and my glasses get so foggy when I breathe that I learned to take the oxygen from your bloodstream when I'm near you. Your fingerprints get stuck in my head, nothing but swirls, the light caught in your eyes like a firefly in my hand, peeking through the cracks between my fingers, wondering when I broke away from myself, losing all my change between the couch cushions. The coins in my pockets used to tap against each other when I walked, wanted me to remember they were there, wanted to leave their imprints on my mind like halo silhouettes on my palms. Now no one hears me coming, so I call out my name, throw it into the air in front of me, but it is a birdsong, noise that is part of the silence. I'll be a shadow some day. I'll have so many holes in my stories that I'm lace, the first part of a tablecloth to be worn away, yellowed with age and tearing against itself. For now I'm stuck in the nicotine stains around my father's fingernails, the way raindrops race each other on my window, and with the light within your eyes, watching the world through this curved lens, seeing only the reflection of my own face. If I reach out, I'll learn I'm not trapped, but my hands are deep in my pockets, searching.