calcify
conditions: stuffy room, metallic draft, night air
I am building a cave to house what swirls and latches to me. For the thick, stagnant air that parches the sinuses until breathing tastes like stale cotton.
For the thick, stagnant air that parches the sinuses until breathing tastes like stale cotton. Stuffy, even with the windows thrown wide. Loose locks of fur waft into the draft from the violent shake of a tail and the tossing of a blanket — a quiet molting in the room. Watching the golden tufts suspended like floating silt, trapped in the light as green leaves feed greedily on her rays. Somatic fragments scattered throughout: dried coffee rings, unread spine creases, and yellowed post-it notes that have given up their stick.
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With the very tops of my toes, numb from what feels like a metallic draft. Curdling from uneven floorboards, nighttime air calcifies, along with the gristle of both of my thumbs. The cartilage of my hands tether to my thighs. I’ll be warm here. At least there’s a cold clack of matte ice to touch beneath me.
I get to echo the sun tomorrow.
