distance (part sixteen)

A pathetic soliloquy
to an audience that is busy talking amongst itself,
and checking the time every other minute.

The hills along the south part of this valley,
Where the river bends east for a couple of miles,
Remind me of a painting--
      No one can see the top from anywhere but the top,
      And so, I'm led to believe that it's merely a set piece,
      Propped up by a million beams,
      And the way the peach-tinted clouds swept behind them--
      It could have been a painting.

I tell myself that you could easily be falling for some interesting European woman with smaller tits,
While I sleep in on my days off
And go to voice recitals by myself and pick at the fruit laid out for later.
People have more talents than me.

You're not listening. Not that I've really asked you to listen.
But please--I wrote this for you--

In the spring mornings, when the fragrance of the flowers that I didn't know were blooming nearby hits me, softly, as I walk out the door, I think of you.
In the summer days, as the sun, with nothing as a buffer between its rays and my pale complexion, brings my skin to a slow simmer, and the river and the lake up north and the sharp pine scent beckon me from under fluorescent lighting, I hear you.
In the early autumn evenings, when I can wear the clothing I feel most comfortable in, and walk beneath the many-splendored array of colors that the trees offer anyone who looks, and the slow snap of cold creeps into the coffee shops where the yuppies pretend to be artistic, I write about you.
In the winter nights, when the snow is falling and quiets the outside noise, and I curl up in the fetal position with books and blankets and songs, and scents of cinnamon and thick soups try to coax me out of bed, I close my eyes and sometimes you are there.

I make it out to sound a lot more romantic than it actually is.
I carry a bouquet of flowers everywhere I go,
And I am forever shedding petals on the sidewalk;
The best or worst part is that no one will know where they came from,
And no one will try to follow the trail of dying roses.

There is a giant cross on the southwestern-most hill across the river, just at the corner, where it bends east.
This town is full of paranoid energy and dry tedium,
Mixing together surprisingly better than water and oil, although not to my joy.
I want that cross to go away.

I wish you would read this,
And I hope you won't.

This is the time of year for open windows at night. For the unspoken trust of our neighborhood.

All the crickets are out, now. Nighttime discombobulated symphony.

-Dana Winter