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ForeclosureIt’s cold, but not cold enough to feel like February. I’d forgotten how quiet it gets here. I’d forgotten how tucked away this house really was - plopped and precarious on a hill in the middle of suburbia, surrounded by rows and rows of town homes and nearly identical houses. The house across the street is actually a mirror image (I remember going inside when I was a child, to play with a long-lost-and-forgotten friend), except it’s painted pale peach instead of peeling periwinkle.
Not periwinkle, really. Cerulean? No. Blue. Just blue.
“I don’t really like this feeling I’m getting from this place.” she says.
“It’s haunted,” I reply. I cross the sloping lawn, which was always impossible to water.
You could stick the sprinkler on it for hours and have nothing to show for it. The top of the hill would be yellow and the bottom would be muddy and the Homeowner’s Association would still badger for green.
I know Dad just
IdiosAt the museum of stupid questions, the curator is hunched down over that one thing you asked that one time when everyone laughed because of course. He lets his fingers hover over the contours of your embarrassment, the yellow light above gentle but sufficient to reveal the delicate crinkles of your desperation to be understood. He wants to tend to your loneliness, to treat it well. Somewhere somebody still believes that a *we* exists, even though the bridges people build keep breaking. Long after you've settled down inside your own cynicism, the curator will be there, hanging the ruins on the wall and worshiping your isolation like a work of art.
the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebbles
and my veins are thick with ink
so i'll bleed out all my lovesongs
wash them down the kitchen sink
and i'll tell you that i'm leaving
and i'll flee this soulless town
for the silent sea is calling
and i'm not afraid to drown
and i'll search out quiet islands
let the blank horizons be
drench my soul in every ocean
sink my heart in every sea.
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