Flat Pop

Flat Pop

I watch you make your bed, mesmerized by how carefully you tuck the sheets into the corners. I have already discovered from the drama that ensued when I placed the Seinfeld disc into the wrong episode pocket that you have no patience for disorder. We are folding laundry. Well, actually, I'm folding laundry and you are creating some sort of complicated origami with your T-shirt. Where did you ever learn to fold so precisely? I unfold the T-shirt and fold it again so that are folding styles are in synch.

I unfold and fold again. Unfold and fold again. Unfold and fold again.

This rhythm is familiar to me. Unfolding the way I do things to conform to your ways of operating. I am a fruit roll-up, a yo-yo, a slinky falling down the stairs. I am the object unravelling and you are the hands clapping, the mouth joyously agape, the eyes watching me come undone in your palms. I hold up your t-shirt.  It's saggy and faded like it has been stretched by a run through the sprinkler. But I know that's not the reason for its unbearable ugliness. You're not the type to run through sprinklers. 

"Water that comes from the earth instead of the air?" You exclaim. "Why that's stupid and illogical and unscientific. Don't tell me you run through such juvenile nonsense!" You wouldn't actually say that but maybe you would. You are serious in ways I never will be and I am certain that you will never change. We will stay forever as we are. You, the sprinkler moving slowly back in forth, stuck in the same monotonous rhythms and I, the tireless child running through screeching with her hands in the air. 

You show me where I can put my things in the bathroom. There is so much room everywhere, save for the small corner of your kitchen counter which is home to a small fake plant in a pink pot.

"Are you sure you live here?" I ask, laughing.

You stare at me blankly, not getting the joke.

You never get my jokes. 

We have inhabited this wide white space you call your apartment for over a month yet not a single story or memory has been written on its walls. This rectangle of a home is nothing but a writer's block. 

At night out bodies clunk clumsily against each other like soda cans as we move about the bathroom brushing our teeth. Your hands against my face are sticky and your kiss sounds like a sizzle that dies rather than a fizzle that pops. 

I miss the sound of wind chines that emanates from two champagnes glasses kissing. 

You laugh at me for becoming giddy over trifles.
For sticking my nose in the dirt.
For dancing in the kitchen.

I want to be popped by a pair of hands that aren't afraid of tasting my giddiness.

My bones are telling me to leave. 

You try to kiss me as I take my only belongings from under the small space under the sink at put them in my bag but my lips are tired of tasting words that feel as cold as metal and taste like nothing other than the tiresome taste of flat pop.  

The Tunnel Of The In-Between

The Tunnel Of The In-Between