This Is Fiction Right?

In case you're wondering, I've grown accustomed to this hour: these hours, I mean. When nothing quite moves, yet that shadow fancies a shiver the instant you turn face. I can't quite help it, yet I might have put my finger on it. It's because I wait. I don't know what or who I wait for, but I do. How this works, don't ask me. Ask my shadow. Or my change of face.

In fact give me a big push. Punch me in the stomach real hard. As hard you can. Really. Do it. I love a good kick. Shove comes to shove as I view you from above. I can't help but spill my guts, but being awkward seems to come natural. And the funny thing is that no one will see the gimp in your step but yours truly. Sock it to me shadow. Sock it so the stinging feels like honeycomb bees.

P.S. Go to sleep dammit.


Back and forth,
of stills that paint the taxi cabs,
Of summers gone,
and friends that smile in the past.

She remembers only theirs,
as she breathes the winter air.