A 4 a.m. Stream of Consciousness Session
Jesus wanders bars late at night. That friend who kindly asks, so what’s new in your life. We wonder how many words must be said to create a definition. Gravid drinks pile before me, relentless resist. Antiques in dusty Texan shops call out — have I forgotten where I’ve been.
Tinkling yells about plants and roots, respect for humans clutter inside the garbage disposal. We realize plastic, amongst memories like hide-n-go-seek, first kisses and thrown-open-legs, cannot just simply disappear. Becoming adults and complaining about lack of growth in sales, or bedrooms, sit inside our tupperware.
Trying to create stories, I chug wine glasses of water. Erosion of roots, how many excuses can be given for human thoughts. Fractures inside organs, speckles of glass put together to create one mirror. In order to bestow one image in the reflection, my eyes see an entirety instead of the tiny pieces of puzzles but it disintegrates when I kiss the lines of your body. Your memories sink into mine. Maybe Jesus will walk back in and finish this goddamn drink.
When tiredness seeps into the brain, you can only hear open eyes and scattered pencils — I think you are not as awake as me. I think, maybe, thoughts vomit through my throat. Streamers stitched out of vague memories take over your bed. What word is the correct one? Illustrations and photographs, we label to identify. what confuses me is the pictures and proportions we capture of others. The word feeling has over five definitions yet we think we can determine another human in just five seconds. My words jog tiredly.
Wishing for you, I pluck dandelion petals off the flower. Delicate and fine, I never once whisper mine. Weightless and full, the scent from a flower is found within the stem, within itself. I can either cradle a petal and watch it disintegrate, or simply remember the happiness it gave me.