poetinside

Four p.m.

Faces swim before me like reflections in fun house mirrors, distorted and out of focus. Names are tossed around the room like frizbees and all the things I once cared about float by my unhearing ears while I pretend to be thinking about anything but you. Everyone is looking at me and all they see is the same person they have always known, unaware that she is gone, and for the first time I don’t care to be what they want me to be.

Five p.m.

I slip out the backdoor and indulge in that habit you hate so much. Purple smoke swirls up from between my fingertips and slips away between the low-hanging branches of a tamarind tree and I envy it its ability to leave so gracefully. I leave too, with more effort, closing the door without saying goodbye. They will have to learn to expect less of me.

Six p.m.

It has begun to rain in that Caribbean way that can only be described as despotic and I am crawling blindly down the highway, my only reference points the blinking red brake lights of the nervous driver ahead of me. The rain bats against the windshield and my car ticks and smokes trying to make its way through a small ocean that covers half of the road. The engine shuts down for a moment and I am floating. All I hear is your name.