Spacing out

You notice the texture of your pruney fingers, notice the bones that show, trace the veins, the alien touch and the strangeness of it, notice how the fingernails blush when you make a fist, the lines off which people stir stories about themselves; have an urge to write something on your wrist, but the pen never works- it has to be pursued. It isn’t vanity maybe, but the spoils of an epiphanic solitude, or maybe a mournful fit of vacuity, when the thoughts stream listlessly and you blend in a strange silence which has alluded you, when you stare too long, breathe to deep, touch languidly, and then a sudden tick- the littlest trivial sound wakes you, and it has been just a minute or two.


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