notes from the wreckage

[fiction]

Bird songs are one of two things: marking territory, or a mating signal.

I can relate to the bird, whether territorial or not. It’s a morning thing.

Now, the air sticks to my skin like seran wrap. Overhead the fan squeaks. Next to me’s a body whose silkskin brushes against my tree bark. Good morning’s a pain au chocolat and pressed coffee, good morning’s are sweet nothings whispered ignoring the morning breath.

Sitting against the headboard, I reach for the pad on the night table–bird songs still titillate the air with their horny tunes. It’s an exercise I’ve been taking part in, writing the first thoughts that come to mind, without forcing anything. Then actively willing a sentence into existence to set the tone for the day.

I wrote:

I’m tired of being tired from being strung along. Yet, here I am, and there they are. I hate this feeling, hate how their peace comes at the expense of mine. How their anger is justified by actions I took no part in.

Followed by:

Today is going to be the day I turn the page. I’m grabbing life by the steering wheel, and if I crash? I crashed knowing it was me driving.

Putting my palm on their nude back, I get close, and lay my lips on their sunmarks splayed on their tender shoulder blade. It smells like puppy love, and cardamon, or patchouli and lemon verbena with a note of cedar.

Another day I let myself remain hooked as a fish in the open sea.