the chair

Absence is a face i can never touch, it is only when they are near enough to feel that i know them. 

Long limbs folding in upon them selves to curl into my own red curves. An intimate affair though I mostly only get her back. When she is gone I rest open, facing the garden tasting morning light and fading days. 

I am well worn after all. 

We lived in another house together, when she first took me home. Everything was red like me. I think she wanted me to feel welcome, like I fit in even though I held the memories of Big Mama and another place, another time, a much younger layer of her. 

In that red house I made an unlikely friend in the feisty gray cat. she snuggled and clawed me, and occasionally pissed on my feet. in that house I had a steady view of books which sometimes she would read, resting in my always open embrace. 

I remember her as a child, she loved to come to my room then. Back when I was younger, a grand affair in a formal room. My color always alluring. A playful curious thing, she was Fascinated with the dancing shapes of borrowed time, captured in a glass box on the table by my side. big mama would call and she would scamper off, leaving me cold in a room too big, my color the only heat. her visits a rosy cheeked moment of wonder. a world not yet known… sticky hands and frilly skirts.  

the shape of her has changed since then. she's still curious and playful but in a different way. I'm still placed by the books and find my self curious that she has surrounded me again by my family of color making me feel at home. She rests into me now with a deeper sense of contemplation, reminding me ever more of big mama and how she used to come sit in her quiet room that was a little too big. 

their spirits are in the fabric of my chest and lap and limb. only echoes singing through her, ripple through my layers and take me back to the places I've been, the bodies i've held. 
 

Absence is a face i can never touch, it is only when they are near enough to feel that i know them. 
Long limbs folding in upon them selves to curl into my own red curves. An intimate affair though I mostly only get her back. When she is gone I rest open, facing the garden tasting morning light and fading days. 

I am well worn after all. 

We lived in another house together, when she first took me home. Everything was red like me. I think she wanted me to feel welcome, like I fit in even though I held the memories of Big Mama and another place, another time, a much younger layer of her. 

In that red house I made an unlikely friend in the feisty gray cat. she snuggled and clawed me, and occasionally pissed on my feet. in that house I had a steady view of books which sometimes she would read, resting in my always open embrace. 

I remember her as a child, she loved to come to my room then. Back when I was younger, a grand affair in a formal room. My color always alluring. A playful curious thing, she was Fascinated with the dancing shapes of borrowed time, captured in a glass box on the table by my side. big mama would call and she would scamper off, leaving me cold in a room too big, my color the only heat. her visits a rosy cheeked moment of wonder. a world not yet known… sticky hands and frilly skirts.  

the shape of her has changed since then. she's still curious and playful but in a different way. I'm still placed by the books and find my self curious that she has surrounded me again by my family of color making me feel at home. She rests into me now with a deeper sense of contemplation, reminding me ever more of big mama and how she used to come sit in her quiet room that was a little too big. 

their spirits are in the fabric of my chest and lap and limb. only echoes singing through her, ripple through my layers and take me back to the places I've been, the bodies i've held.