Monica has the shape of your feet memorized. Considering the array of extraordinary between the pair of you, her unbelievable past and your unfathomable future – it is difficult to comprehend the way she absorbs such detail.
What you still fail to realize: while Monica notices small corners of any scenario, she doesn’t ordinarily recall eye color or tress shades.
She often writes about the azure tone you look to ask her with; your sandy, un-blonde locks. The color of north-western coast.
Monica said, “I do” two years after the hospital and three weeks before her husband’s birthday. It was eighteen months before she understood you.
In a small cape home tucked near Roxbury, Connecticut she spends a lot of time in the kitchen. She cooks intricate dinners scenting the house with cumin and clove. Hand rolled bread and fresh squeezed juice.
Zac drinks Red Bull and eats Doritos. The transition to vegan for Monica was simple. Natural. But she still cooks him steaks. The sort you wish you were able to eat.
The two of them share things you longed and long for. He knows her favorite colors and flowers. Basic things. The songs she likes the best. How to make her laugh.
The two of you met in an entirely different fashion. Laughter aside. Although as you are more than aware…
Monica is in perpetual seek of the lighter side. She’s convinced it’s on your shoulders.
“I can’t wait to go to sleep at night.”
Monica doesn’t know how to explain to her husband why she craves her unconscious. She doesn’t know when it went to sleep in the first place.
Why he can’t hear it.
When Monica sleeps, the sky turns magenta with swishes of blue. It isn’t a blue she can quite describe. It’s a mix of your eyes and the sapphire ring her husband bought her for their third anniversary.
You wouldn’t have bought her anything like that, you aren’t that sort of person.
Monica goes to sleep at exactly 8pm nearly every night. It’s acceptable. 9pm might be more common, but Monica does so much during the day while her husband is at work. She gardens; she draws.
She thinks about you. She tells herself not to. She thinks about you. She tells herself not to.
Monica’s husband has a name, it’s Zac. She doesn’t picture him as a Zac though. Monica thinks he looks more like a Peter or Jeff.
Zac is a name that reminds her of you, and you have nothing in common with Zac. You have tattoos and shoot heroin. You laugh too loud and have never admitted being wrong.
When people ask Monica if she misses you, she acts like she doesn’t hear them. When she avoided Samantha Monahan this way, Samantha said, “Monica. I know you love Zac. But I know you miss him too.”
Monica telephones Agnes. She heard she has a car.
Namaste blog family
I hope you are all happy, healthy and in love.
For the past few hours I’ve been cleaning up some pages to send to Paper Lantern Lit. It’s been fun shifting focus back to some good ol’ YA fiction. I figure I haven’t submitted any work in about six months so why not have a crack.
Exercises like this are particularly fun after spending the day writing press releases about technical sorts of business things.
My brain is happy today.
In other news, my perpetual anxiety attack over puppies and moving continues, Poetry Volume 3 remains in the mix, and somehow – whilst busted ass broke – I’m still managing to support myself as a Writer in this wonderful, wild city where summer is sweeping the sidewalks and windows stay open all night.
Surely manuscript selling is on the horizon. Although being commissioned to write a fresh creative lick is naturally acceptable.
Stay cool blog family, I’m off to edit. (Wow, you don’t usually hear me say that very often…)
Tick tock tick.
salt painted pact
etching grooves. in a grin
to convince of how i am
better. there are quiet
memories of sand blown
happiness. it is wished to
me… with unprepared
an average where accepted
can find a way to become
something worth coming;
for infinity wraps worth
in gold ribbon. reassurance
drips in honest tones
dreaming. we are together
in an unpredicted
Monica’s been thinking about falling again. Some people refer to it as a jump.
Monica believes that falling sounds much more graceful. Besides, who jumps asleep?
When Monica falls, she widens her arms and turns her head.
He had a similar grace to thunder. Long lightning limbs. Every time they touched she saw silver-blue.
It didn’t remind her of how you float. How you drift through the breeze stuffing pockets full of clouds. She once drew how you move in liquid gold ink across handmade paper.
She kept it.
Monica dreams in color. The first time she saw you, you were wearing an indigo shirt with violet stitches. Her eyes reminded you of the inside of an oyster shell you discovered on Sandringham Beach.
There’s a secret to plunging deep enough. Know where you are going before you close your eyes. Monica tends to travel upward.
He isn’t home much. He packs his lunch and eats the same thing every day. He takes lunch at twelve with the other three security guards. He drives a cheap car and drinks cheap beer.
He and Monica love each other very much.
She doesn’t think you should visit anymore.