The staticky twang of Muddy Waters.
Sated by cups of tea and plates of crab soup dumplings.
Enveloped by the cloud of the bed.
Monday seems far, far away.
A square tin of bag balm rests on a glass edge. Soy candles burn soundless, emitting the sweet odor of milk.
A blind contour drawing tacked to the ceiling. Sepia-toned photographs align my walls. Below, the interlacing wood floor.
An unopened package of gourmet coffee grinds. Wicker basket brimming with snaking scarves, silk and cotton bands of color.
Low drumming of the rain. Pewter and gold figurines; one a rabbit, the other a painted Limoges.
Floral prints, striped pillowcases.
Clustered shoes, a family of keys, a pair of empty leather journals.
It’s only Sunday night. It’s just the warmth of my room. But right now, there’s no place I’d rather know.
With my toes peeking out from under the covers, I remember the feeling, the one I’ve bent by since I was a little girl.
As long as I keep the sandman at bay, my head under the blanket and feet jutting over the mattress’ end, I will prevent the passage of time. The night will unfurl forever as a carpet of black velvet, studded with diamond stars.
And the week’s end will live on. And Monday morning will never bloom.
Sated by cups of tea and plates of crab soup dumplings.
Enveloped by the cloud of the bed.
Monday seems far, far away.
A square tin of bag balm rests on a glass edge. Soy candles burn soundless, emitting the sweet odor of milk.
A blind contour drawing tacked to the ceiling. Sepia-toned photographs align my walls. Below, the interlacing wood floor.
An unopened package of gourmet coffee grinds. Wicker basket brimming with snaking scarves, silk and cotton bands of color.
Low drumming of the rain. Pewter and gold figurines; one a rabbit, the other a painted Limoges.
Floral prints, striped pillowcases.
Clustered shoes, a family of keys, a pair of empty leather journals.
It’s only Sunday night. It’s just the warmth of my room. But right now, there’s no place I’d rather know.
With my toes peeking out from under the covers, I remember the feeling, the one I’ve bent by since I was a little girl.
As long as I keep the sandman at bay, my head under the blanket and feet jutting over the mattress’ end, I will prevent the passage of time. The night will unfurl forever as a carpet of black velvet, studded with diamond stars.
And the week’s end will live on. And Monday morning will never bloom.
7 comments:
It sounds like you embraced the rain and milked it for what it's worth: the comfort of a bed, the dark of cloudy skies and the prose to support your logic.
I'm just starting to learn how not to hate Sundays...
Lovely description. I could smell the candles.
I still can't love Sunday nights. Sunday morning is my true love; smells of coffee, black ink on my hands from the paper, and hours and hours and hours away from Monday morning. :)
If only it were possible. I wish the weekends would never end.
You had me at crab soup dumplings. Joe's Shanghai in China Town. Those damn dumplings had me addicted the second I had one. I can't decide if I like the pork or crab more though...
A mantra to keep Monday at bay. If only it worked.
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