I have this fascination with pretty china cups. I would like to own a bunch of them with tiny roses and thin gold rims and I would drink from them every day. I might possibly make tiny sandwiches and buttery little scones with raspberry jam and eat these things while watching my yard get all foggy as the snow melts and all the tiny little rabbit prints fade away.
I daydream about leisure, about slow, slow time and doing nothing in particular.
I am dreaming of ordinary things and miss the fever dreams but not the fever.
M made me laugh so hard today I had a coughing fit and my lungs felt dry and papery and I can almost imagine them as these little dessicated things shriveling up in my chest.
The temperature is rising and everything looks like a soupy haze just hanging there at shoulder level. I should like to walk the dog in this weather but he is very old and not quite up to it, I imagine.
This whole melting and freezing again thing is sickness weather. I feel dread. I am so tired of being sick. I feel like I have been sick forever.
The other day I came home from work and nuked some takeout pizza (I am officially tired of soup) and watched Candyman, which I think is a really creepy movie, but I am afraid of bees, so maybe that's why.
I want to make something complicated in the kitchen. Gnocchi, perhaps? Or a really fancy cake? I need a distraction, but I am too slammed with things that need to be done and I have totally failed at prioritizing them.
I am feeling maudlin. I would probably feel better if there were new poems, but alas, there are none. I did get a personal rejection from Spoon River Poetry Review, which is kind of nice, as rejections go.
Scary Vending Machine Item of the Week: Anything with Cream Filling that Does Not Require Refrigeration.
Blood Pudding Press Poetry Oodles this March!
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