After midnight, my street sounds like the ocean. It’s low tide, but rolling in, resin under five–no–six lights which make the constellation of a sailboat, an oak connecting the dots.
I have a secret no one knows, and I have a green bottle from which I drink it up, in which I’ve written it on a scroll of paper and tucked it in like it is a child who I want to sleep soundly. It is also a message I want everyone to know, but only if one person finds it when it washes up on the shore and will speak it for me.
You hear those stories of a halfway deflated balloon tied with a note. You hear those stories of a new grave over which someone has begged for and received a sign. You hear stories of someone letting everything go to some force that doesn’t possess its own will and yet retrieving an answer.
This is the sort of waiting I do for you to respond to my pulse, how it happens quickly underneath my skin, how it is blue, how it moves by triumphant billowing force and yet creeps with the wheel-rust of train cars filled with stowaways who don’t care where they end up and must hide among the boxes of other people’s belongings, people who are moving but won’t transport their own lamps.
I am trying to sleep, and I am traveling the sounds of my street as if they are some other method of how to return to you: routeless like the ocean, strict as a train’s track. Six not five through the blinds. When a car passes, I imagine it is as unoccupied as I am when I roll over and your whole being exists in the arm or the leg that comes with me.
posted by holly