4.23.2002

i opened the front door into the darkness with street lamps, and the sound of sleep intermingled with the restful breathing of outdoors. there's shuffle of sweeping denim and a rustle in the breeze, but i am met with silence warm in spring humidity. nothing echoes in the distance nor do cars disturb into waves the solitude. the train approaches from a distance when i enter back inside. it rumbles along the track, a low hum like earthen thunder. it smells of cinnamon, of dirt and sweat and steam with mechanical arms rolling its' giant wheels along a path.
i undress in front of the bathroom mirror, preparing for steaming water to prune my body and melt my insides. and when each layer of cotton is removed, i find my shoulders soft and my breasts warm from being hugged all day by the sunlight . the fan overhead moved cool air in a slow motion tornado around my skin, yet i am still glowing internally. and cheeks now grow rosy in the room seperated by a closed door. and i succumb.