eye contact has avoided me since you
hair, hands, bare skin, lips
i stare
over a right shoulder
that flurry aura over a left
fuzzy city streets
elbow patches
faded flannel
old sunglasses
the soft glow of rain on cobblestone
illuminated by street lights
not from lack of trying
my eyelids heavy from wine
and lack of sleep
or emotional encumbrance
no one welcome in my bed
i can't look as deep into
soul searching
life connecting
earth shattering
intimate raw
eyes
not since you
I sat across from her on the L train to Brooklyn. Her hair was dirty and stringy, sticking to her pallid face with a mixture of grease and the tears that streamed down each cheek. She wore thick, black-framed glasses, but not in an ironic fashion. They sat on her nose in a way that made you think she couldn't see at all without them. Her sweater was thick and pea soup green, murky like the water that sloshed under my boots. It was the elephant in the room, the sobbing girl in the subway car.
On either side of her sat a boy, both of who snuck sideways glances at her, with looks of both voyeurism and awe. Who was this girl who couldn't adhere to the code of the subway? One must look impassive, bored and submissive, maybe stoned. Don't cry. The army of the underground. Who was she?
The wet humidity made my joints ache, and I shifted uncomfortably. My lips were glued in a thick straight line and if I could see my eyebrows, they may have been furrowed. Not in worry, but in that bored impassiveness. The armor. I noticed one sock had fallen down around her ankle, like the blanket around the bottom of a Christmas tree, her trunk leg sallow with small dark hairs leading up the trunk. There was no noise, from her eyes, no gasps from tears. Just drop after drop rolling into her collar as she clutched a torn copy of Vogue in her hands.
