Jamie Ramsay
Bio
Every word is chosen from my throat, in the moments I feel too human.
I am your guide into the sinkhole.
Stories (35/0)
You Can Breathe While Driving
You can have the purple sky, the horizon of lilac, drink it like water through the open window, down the freeway. You can have peace and quiet tonight, watch the world shift in colour, spin aimlessly into a world of dark blue, in your room, on your bed.
By Jamie Ramsay9 months ago in Poets
Air Conditioned Crime Scene
Today you were thinking about police stations in early fall, specifically last year. For some reason it was a tolerable type of anxiety compared to the mundane sort, an air conditioned room of security in every sense of the word. The last three days had been an exhausting timelessness, in rooms with no windows, on hospital beds, and waking up to the same roof with the same light, not sure what time it was. The last three days had been transferred through buildings, conversations and the same questions, held so securely. The most secure you’d ever felt in your entire life.
By Jamie Ramsay9 months ago in Poets
Self pity?
I’ve lost track of how many days I wake up this way. Before I take my first conscious breath, I already have words on my tongue that I cannot say because you’re somewhere doing whatever it is you’re doing. Whatever it is I do, there’s always a petty string of spite that attaches itself.
By Jamie Ramsay9 months ago in Poets
Old longing.
A soft, old man, with a prickled chin that sticks out like a crescent moon, green twinkling eyes, a whisper of a voice, across from an old woman, red lipstick, a plain hardness about her. I don’t know their story, but to me they are lovers from long lost years, and they met again, here, in front of my eyes. It is the way he asks for the bill and she wipes her hands over nothing, attempts to pay herself, while he says nothing, just quietly holds that twinkle in his eyes.
By Jamie Ramsay9 months ago in Poets
