The artificial light of the ceiling fan,
Blades stationary; unmoved,
Casting shadows on the drawings on my hand,
And I begin to think of you.
The background hum of the fridge in the corner,
Black scratches, dents on the bottom,
Soothes me slowly, the silent mourner,
Again I think of you.
The cold of the tile beneath my tapping fingers,
The grout dirty and rough,
Brings me to thoughts that will always linger,
I can't help but think of you.
A sweet and sour aroma hangs in the air,
More sour than sweet,
And I don't really know how it gets there...
So instead I think of you.
My tongue glides onto my strawberry flavored lips,
From that worn-out old chapstick,
My hair in my fingers, the scarf on my hips,
All I think of... is you.
© Elizabeth White 2008
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