Weather Report: Hell Frozen
oh but it's beautiful, it is all light and shadow. It's low slung and far from warm. It's majestic and saps all the moisture from your pores, it's the treacle of romance and unforgiving hard surfaces. It's the end, it's the end and the beginning. It's the music in corners and the music in cars and the defrost on full throttle, it's a deficit of lip gloss and half forgotten pairs of mittens on my cold fingers on a jaunt through the park with our gunslinging california sun with her guns cocked and trained on the knife sharp horizon. Just go on and slay the sun.
Curl about the waning heat of the draining bath, wind up wearing socks to bed, which if you knew me is some kind of cardinal sin.
Hell has clearly frozen, yet as I wrap myself in the cold cloak of the deep blue of the magic hour my gait is decidely buoyant. This cold penance suits me, for it's atmospheric quietude and it's slanting light setting the windows of the east bay ablaze. The ships pass beneath the golden gate, the clarity is as dangerous as a shattered window, I pass through the day, like I'd fumble through a spider's web of spun glass, sustaining thousands upon thousands of invisible laserations, cold, cold, cold and beautiful.
There have been glacial tears on these bright mornings, I have woken with absence,I have woken to abstinance, I have risen to my sadness huffing from my body and the diphanous afterglow, it's no portent and it's no harbinger it's just carbon dioxide colliding with oxygen in the heatless void of the breaking morning and my icy wood floors. I have taken to skating down the hallway to the loo, I twirl and I figure eight, but I still can never get it straight.
This kind of cold in this city is unfamiliar, none of us have the right footwear, mark my words, it bodes ill.
Should calamity strike, let it be after next week. I need an unfettered week in the sun, let me return calm and emboldened, sheathed in freckles, saltwater tanned and invincible, all ready to be heartbroken again.
oh but it's beautiful, it is all light and shadow. It's low slung and far from warm. It's majestic and saps all the moisture from your pores, it's the treacle of romance and unforgiving hard surfaces. It's the end, it's the end and the beginning. It's the music in corners and the music in cars and the defrost on full throttle, it's a deficit of lip gloss and half forgotten pairs of mittens on my cold fingers on a jaunt through the park with our gunslinging california sun with her guns cocked and trained on the knife sharp horizon. Just go on and slay the sun.
Curl about the waning heat of the draining bath, wind up wearing socks to bed, which if you knew me is some kind of cardinal sin.
Hell has clearly frozen, yet as I wrap myself in the cold cloak of the deep blue of the magic hour my gait is decidely buoyant. This cold penance suits me, for it's atmospheric quietude and it's slanting light setting the windows of the east bay ablaze. The ships pass beneath the golden gate, the clarity is as dangerous as a shattered window, I pass through the day, like I'd fumble through a spider's web of spun glass, sustaining thousands upon thousands of invisible laserations, cold, cold, cold and beautiful.
There have been glacial tears on these bright mornings, I have woken with absence,I have woken to abstinance, I have risen to my sadness huffing from my body and the diphanous afterglow, it's no portent and it's no harbinger it's just carbon dioxide colliding with oxygen in the heatless void of the breaking morning and my icy wood floors. I have taken to skating down the hallway to the loo, I twirl and I figure eight, but I still can never get it straight.
This kind of cold in this city is unfamiliar, none of us have the right footwear, mark my words, it bodes ill.
Should calamity strike, let it be after next week. I need an unfettered week in the sun, let me return calm and emboldened, sheathed in freckles, saltwater tanned and invincible, all ready to be heartbroken again.
posted by emma at
10:58 PM
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