February Fever

The morning-afters are something else. Your body doesn’t return to you for days, it’s still with them, in the tightness of their arms, and in the blurring outline of your desire and theirs.

This morning, my face towards the sky, my back on the floor, I watched a hawk (eagle?) flying. It was high enough for me to want to imagine what it sees from up there — the triangle of terraces, the straightness of pipes, the black opaqueness of water tanks, the rough crookedness of roads, and low enough for me to notice the lazy flap of wings it brought every 30 seconds. Was one casual flap enough to sustain flying for 30 seconds? I watched until it reached the edge of my vision and then looked straight up again to find 3 more hawks (eagles?)

In my dream this morning, I saw an open tap next to my bed. If only it had drinking water, I thought – I’d never have to worry about going to the kitchen six times a day.

It’s January February March and already I have seen versions of myself that make me drop things with joy, bring aches to parts of my body that I can only reach when I am sitting a certain way, do nothing but sit on my purple sofa and read endlessly.

Donna Tartt’s The Secret History is calling.

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