i am seated in a wine bar facing the door.
there are leather couches and empty wine bottles on shelves flickering from tea candles;
Peyroux moaning with heartache in the background.
i’ve been watching people having conversations:
women with their red lipsticks, a man smoking a cigar.
occasionally, I see a figure walking
on the other side of the window, and the foggy glass
melts and disassembles them into someone else.
when they walk in, i relax my grip
on my unlit cigarette. it’s not him. i
exhale, smooth my hair. i remember I am still waiting,
and this is how i know
i am in love.
there was always a romantic melancholy to the
image of a solitary thinker,
sitting in a bar full of shadows and too much red wine.
the waiting and the wine has led me to think too much
about how i feel.
i feel like the word shatter.
you can wet the rim of a glass
and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound.
this is what I feel like:
this sound of glass.
. an excerpt, found in my emails.