i speak a dozen mundanities in the dark — memory all swinging doors and my forehead laid on the back of my hands, all imaginations projected onto the insides of my eyelids, all movies.
i forgot how my breaths sounded until i listened again, forgot how my skin felt until i touched it again, put my nose against it and smelled. why not? i know so little about myself, some days i forget i even exist.
maybe we could talk about how small things can be, how all this is made up of really small things we can’t see. things we can’t always know, but things we can talk about.
how i said hello and then stopped and looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see words floating in the air. like maybe if i said it enough loudly enough i could wave my hand through and catch a letter. pretend i didn’t know which hand it’s in and surprise myself. lay it on top of a table or clumps of dirt or a really green leaf and let it wash off with the rain. wake up in the morning and greet myself differently.
maybe we don’t talk at all. maybe we just listen to how small things can be and hear really intricate things and secrets that were always for us to know. like there are no secrets. like every secret was really just a string of everyday things that we don’t really notice because we’re too busy being bored.
the sun gave me all the light i could need, and still i asked for more —
i don’t even know what light is, illuminating everything that i take every day for granted.