Stacking earrings, the rings of them touching just slightly as they fall downward, loop on loop on loop through a ridge of cartiledge
A crayon rolls beneath the table, the adult crouches, and on all fours loses half their life, maybe more, groping in the dim cavern of the desk. A ghost hand, creeping out to meet theirs, running translucent fingers along the carpet in search of Ruby Red
Chairs with legs, shoes with tongues, walls that wink with stucco eyelids and ceilings that cry crystal tears
Sitting against walls, crunched legs and laptops balanced at angles, books splayed on shins
The glug of a sink, as the plug is pulled. The gurgling pop of the thing coming out, drawn back by an infinitely powerful meteorological force. A cyclone of dish water forms, whirling until it too slips down the depths of a kitchen drain
Now it’s legs that fold, unfold. Legs that uncrease carefully and deliberately, like unfolding paper that is meant to become an important card.
Now I’m hellbent of finding who people are, at least on the surface. Who their voices are, who their legs are…She’s a Gwendolyn, her black hair glossy, parted at center, twisted back and pinned past the temple. With that length that shields the shoulder blades and creases the body in the center.