a cigarette at 2am
the stretch of days between Christmas and the new year; liminal time
there’s a stagnance in these walls
this house.
ceiling fans,
the only source of movement
in the air,
recycling.
over and over,
blades churning stagnance,
thick like molasses
and yet we smile and say good morning as we pour our coffee side by side
just like yesterday.
optimism in our mugs, our tones
our cheeks,
though we haven’t felt the winter in days.
in the dark, in the silence,
I hear each rotation clearly
cutting through stale breath.
I can’t sleep.
am I breathing?
where does the carbon dioxide go?
Groundhog Day.
I need some air.
how long have I been here?
2am,
a cigarette,
I crack the window.
About the Creator
Taylor Neal
A multi-disciplinary artist, writer and sex worker's advocacy support worker, Taylor's cumulative practice comes together as a holistic exploration of identity, sexuality, and how the embodied subject navigates space and the natural world.
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More stories from Taylor Neal and writers in Poets and other communities.
Where I Belong
When did going back home start to feel like a vacation in the past? I can see memories playing out in front of me again everywhere I go, my first kiss under the streetlight up the road from my mother's house, running stairs during volleyball practice by the middle school entrance,
By Kay Husnick8 days ago in Poets
My Surprise
I was fourteen that summer, and it had been five years since I had last seen him. Meeting with him again had not been my idea, but my grandmother's. She had planned it as her little "surprise." But it hadn't seemed like such a good one at the time. In fact, the whole scenario had struck me with such discord, that even now, some fifty years later, I care very little for surprises. They are to me, just neatly wrapped packages of deceit bestowed upon the unwilling. They are the gift bearer's way of manipulating or controlling the receiver. In short, I do not trust surprises!
By Shirley Belk2 days ago in Psyche
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Wow! This is outstanding! <3 Welcome to the platform!