THREE AND SIX AND FIVE
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4:44 p.m.— You and I have been sitting on this couch for an hour, our backs on opposite ends, our limbs tangled in conversation. I look up from the book I’m reading, you glance at me from the TV, and I don’t know if I should be unnerved by the silence of the afternoon or if I should cherish the absence of voices (questions, the lack of answers, the doubts). The neighbors have all shut their windows and the children outside are running on soundproof soil. The birds, even the birds have managed to stay still. We are here but we are elsewhere. This couch is the only material thing in this room, and everything else we touch might as well just turn into fiction.

4:44 p.m.— You and I have been sitting on this couch for an hour, our backs on opposite ends, our limbs tangled in conversation. I look up from the book I’m reading, you glance at me from the TV, and I don’t know if I should be unnerved by the silence of the afternoon or if I should cherish the absence of voices (questions, the lack of answers, the doubts). The neighbors have all shut their windows and the children outside are running on soundproof soil. The birds, even the birds have managed to stay still. We are here but we are elsewhere. This couch is the only material thing in this room, and everything else we touch might as well just turn into fiction.

Posted 4 months ago with 16 notes
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