There are days when I reach within myself, and pull the ream of emotions out of my chest and wrap them around myself like a large sweater. I imagine this sweater of my insides to be grandmother-style, with shaggy faded pink sleeves that droop off of my shoulders. I wear it everywhere, and with everything, mismatched, and glaringly unflattering. My personal fashion statement.
Dressed, and the most naked I could be, I wander
I fantasize about walking through a park, or down the stairs in a shopping mall, and glimpsing a similar, shabby yellow sweater knotted around a stranger's shoulders. I would stop, surprised, but also displeased, and scrutinize this person from afar, passing unwarranted judgement. How could someone of that posture, have a sweater so vibrant and so exquisite. I would trip behind them, curious, and observe the way the tips of their shoulders drew together in front of their collarbone like magnets to make their hunch so pronounced.
In line to buy pretzels, I would quietly take the spot behind behind them. Guarded and unsure if I would be comfortable wearing all of my insides with this stranger, I would simply stand behind them. As they scrolled through their phone, and sighed with impatience, I would cautiously reach my hands upwards.
On my tip-toes, I would gently run two careful fingers over the fuzzy yellow fabric, like an orchestra conductor. Things would seep from it, through my fingers, like spilled wax, scalding me at first, but warm and malleable to the touch in just a few seconds. Like a slow siren song, these things would take root in me, growing in and on me - pieces for me to carry away.
And when I did leave, I would marvel at how I had the audacity to know someone so deeply, without ever seeing their face.
Dressed, and the most naked I could be, I wander
I fantasize about walking through a park, or down the stairs in a shopping mall, and glimpsing a similar, shabby yellow sweater knotted around a stranger's shoulders. I would stop, surprised, but also displeased, and scrutinize this person from afar, passing unwarranted judgement. How could someone of that posture, have a sweater so vibrant and so exquisite. I would trip behind them, curious, and observe the way the tips of their shoulders drew together in front of their collarbone like magnets to make their hunch so pronounced.
In line to buy pretzels, I would quietly take the spot behind behind them. Guarded and unsure if I would be comfortable wearing all of my insides with this stranger, I would simply stand behind them. As they scrolled through their phone, and sighed with impatience, I would cautiously reach my hands upwards.
On my tip-toes, I would gently run two careful fingers over the fuzzy yellow fabric, like an orchestra conductor. Things would seep from it, through my fingers, like spilled wax, scalding me at first, but warm and malleable to the touch in just a few seconds. Like a slow siren song, these things would take root in me, growing in and on me - pieces for me to carry away.
And when I did leave, I would marvel at how I had the audacity to know someone so deeply, without ever seeing their face.
