on the street

Skatia wants to play. He’s stalking my feet in little bounds, happy to be out of the cage. Outside it’s wet and gray, the null textured sky that I’ve never seen in any other city. All the lights are off, and the ferret bounces in the cold light looking a little bit unreal. Strange to think there’s a sun behind that thick cloth of cloud. A burning furnace of fusion drained to pale by water vapour.

I’m warming up glazed chicken in the stove and somehow I feel like it’s winter. My hand reaching out to turn the knobs shot me into a frame of mind that says cold and white and still dead air. Alistair is out there somewhere hiking with a group of friends. I can almost feel what it would be like on a day like this. The sound of water dripping from the dark heavy green of the forest pattering on my hat and my glasses fogging from the heat of my effort versus the chill in the air. Can it be that somewhere I own a scarf? Please give me a sister to borrow clothing from someday. The lad, he left his shirt behind last night after Six-String Samurai. I borrowed it to sleep in on Saturday night. It’s a black t-shirt with a red dagger worked on it in embroidery. Goth enough to drink wine in, but the rhinestones make it forgivable. My collection of other people’s clothing grows monthly. Left behind a little tub of Nutella too. I do what I can, but I suspect I’ll take a spoon to it some time today. There’s only so much a girl can resist.

In the right frame of mind, this is my kind of day. Losing myself in stalking from one place to another in a mans trenchcoat half a size too big for me. Almost a day to climb the industrial towers. I really think I could take you there. My heart tells me you’d climb the ten stories of stairs for me. The distinct plinking sound of our feet on the metal mesh fire-escape. Reminds me of ink. I used to draw in it, made fresh from the wetted block. I still own the stones. Pooling ink blown by breath across paper from back when my mother put me in arts classes. The air smelling of greasy pastels and acrylics. I never liked what I made, but she did. She still insists I’m an artist and I wish she didn’t. I could never Create. If there is a bitter wound in my soul, it’s that knowledge. Such a confession. I was told once that I was a Muse and it made me cry. Growing up with passionate parents who burn with fire, it’s my failing that I haven’t any. I remember the light from my classes and the paint spatters on the gray cement floor.

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