Stranger

I surprise myself sometimes with the words I say and the things I drag out from underneath the old kitchen mat It’s gotten to the point where I barely recognize the eyes that meet my gaze in the pot belly of my soup spoon anymore. but still I braid my hair I pour the cereal I trace my initials (and maybe a little part of my voice) into the fog that’s settled onto the surface of the window over there and I smirk because we’re shaking out that mat again today. Written December 6th, 2001 © on Dec 06 2001 04:34 AM PST   18 • 0 • 10