it's a cold autumn sunday
and as you lay in bed, clinging to your sheets
like a child after a nightmare
you wish that you never had to get up again.
the smell of pine needles ebbs from the crack in your window
as you rise from your bed, far later than you had hoped
and limp into the house like Frankenstein
after his reincarnation.
it's time to fold laundry;
the sheets in your hands smell like mildew
and you hope desperately that your life will mimic them, someday,
as they settle neatly into place
as a folded pile
on the shelf.
every day, you feel like an amnesiac
awakening somewhere that isn't your home
nothing has ever truly felt like home, has it?
in a way, the dingy air of this place
is the only familiar thing you have left.
you didn't realize
how gloomy and wilted your childhood home felt
until you stepped into your room for the first time
after all of your boxes had been moved to storage.
you miss that, the curtain of naiveté
draped over your head like a makeshift ghost costume
the one that every child has made at least once in their life.
you wish that you could have kept it on forever,
insulated behind that cotton veil.
as you glance out of the window
and up at the grey skies
mirroring the concrete jungle surrounding you
you pray to whatever is listening
that it rains.
you want to watch the raindrops race
across your car's windowpanes
and pretend that you're on the schoolbus again
in the middle of fall
on your way to class.
you want to fill your car's wheels with helium
just to see how close you can get
to joining them
bouncing across the clouds
to postpone the week encroaching
if only for just another moment.
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoesíaA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
