ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 13, 2004
november 2nd by ~dreamsnhazel
Line by line simplicity invites the reader into a more complicated story of being on the outside looking in, "squatting", and accepting the truth (that "extra-large sweater that you think you'll never grow into.") Everytime I read this I discover something new between the lines and within myself.
Featured by ndifference
Suggested by girlonstage
Literature Text
squatting.
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
expanding.
wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
squatting.
i never thought i was doing such a thing
when i invested in you, perhaps no one
ever does. maybe we all have intentions
of someday moving in, maybe not.
i think i did.
which is why it hurts now, to think of
the new tenant, his hands tracing the
intricate woodwork that my own fingers
once explored. to think of him christening
the doors of your mouth with the first of
many kisses. to thoughts of other, more
intimate places, hidden by shadow and
inhabited by mosquitos, where he may
someday venture.
these thoughts leave you without
adequate words in your own tongue,
so you turn to the savage language
of fire and matches.
but before you speak, you think of
the sirens. the echo of sirens you had
already heard over the phone during
late-night confidences.
and you think about how selfish you would
be to join the ranks of all the other
arsonists she had known.
so instead, you pack up
the sweaters,
the stocking caps,
the sweatpants
and assume you'll never see the snow again.
and everyone compliments you on how
good you look in flip flops and shorts.
but one morning in november,
you realize that you will never
truly be happy with such fairweather compliments.
no, you will only truly be happy when some
girl draped in a scarf lays a mittened hand on
your shoulder and whispers into your ear,
"that sweater really brings out the gold speckles in your eyes."
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
expanding.
wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
squatting.
i never thought i was doing such a thing
when i invested in you, perhaps no one
ever does. maybe we all have intentions
of someday moving in, maybe not.
i think i did.
which is why it hurts now, to think of
the new tenant, his hands tracing the
intricate woodwork that my own fingers
once explored. to think of him christening
the doors of your mouth with the first of
many kisses. to thoughts of other, more
intimate places, hidden by shadow and
inhabited by mosquitos, where he may
someday venture.
these thoughts leave you without
adequate words in your own tongue,
so you turn to the savage language
of fire and matches.
but before you speak, you think of
the sirens. the echo of sirens you had
already heard over the phone during
late-night confidences.
and you think about how selfish you would
be to join the ranks of all the other
arsonists she had known.
so instead, you pack up
the sweaters,
the stocking caps,
the sweatpants
and assume you'll never see the snow again.
and everyone compliments you on how
good you look in flip flops and shorts.
but one morning in november,
you realize that you will never
truly be happy with such fairweather compliments.
no, you will only truly be happy when some
girl draped in a scarf lays a mittened hand on
your shoulder and whispers into your ear,
"that sweater really brings out the gold speckles in your eyes."
Literature
Things for J. to Hold
boys who get lost
on the way to being
little messiahs;
girls, who sit quiet inside
large rooms without ever
being too small;
songs from under
apology and regret, to where
starlight and super nova
begin everything;
the rope God used
to tie us together;
water that eddies
into the falls and out
of the falls, without ever thinking
it was lost to the cascades;
the ground under your feet
when it beeps up to you
I think we're in love;
your hat, when the wind blows hard;
poems, and those who write them.
Literature
No Train For Yesterday
I spend two & a half smiles on strangers,
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. G
Literature
HIT ME RUNNING
Don't sell me funeral plots
on late night television
if the end is already in sight
am I supposed to pull the sheets up to my neck,
count to zero,
smile, and cease?
no
keep your pills, in all their pretty colors:
celebrex, propecia, allegra, lipitor, zanex, viagra
keep them for scrabble
keep your rogaine, your facelifts
keep your death insurance
keep your graveyard reservations
hit me running.
let me go down swinging
make it a sport:
give me a ten-minute head start
and an obstacle course.
place a beautiful girl on the far side of a mine field
and whisper, "she wants to kiss you"
target me on my feet
dodging doomsday's in
Suggested Collections
is it safe to say i miss you?
© 2003 - 2024 dreamsnhazel
Comments76
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is wonderful, simply wonderful and I love it. I'm also enchanted by the fact that November the second is my birthday. Oh, this is lovely. xox