lethe
“Only do what your heart tells you.”
Matcha tea is stirred with a wooden spoon and served on a small yellow plate with pink polka dots.
Frothy lattes sprinkled with cinnamon and carrot cake dusted with goji berries and pistachios.
Bamboo chairs groan with the weight of pregnant bottoms. A corner of children's books is stacked on a teal stool; a rainbow is painted on the wall with thick pastel stripes.
Women arrive, their hair in long black braids down their backs. Blue and purple peacoats. Gold-tipped nails. Their lips are a shade darker than their skin and their eyes are like onyx glass. They hunt without understanding what they long to kill.
Worlds collide between fingers. My hand laces through yours and I feel your pulse in a thumb. Minutes pass, and our vibrations hum a little tune together with the sound of those little forks hitting the ceramic dishes. A little beat that tells me there's another narrative at play.
I watch from the corner where the sunlight helps me disappear. No one looks in my direction. The glare is too great.
You stand outside in the heat that paints orange kisses on my forehead and cheeks. Through the glass, you meet my gaze and hold me there with you.
How long will I stay here? My yes is trapped between pursed lips. You don't need me to say it; you feel it when my hand catches yours. That yes was there from the moment we met. Three dishes of pizza were placed between us. There were too many olives and not enough cheese.
The story I write of this season will be punctuated by the long moments of silence we strung up like the laundry. The white pillow sheets were left to the rain and smelled like my body. I cry when we make love, and you hear my answer in each tear. Yes, yes, yes.
Photo source.
