[ there's no lightning, or thunder; it's a heavy storm, but not dramatic, not tense the way she feels, not screaming across miles after a flicker of energy. that storm lays under clammy skin and wet sleeves; it's no camera flash, memorializing the journey.
they slip from one alley to another, front to back, and every door is closed, is locked, is dark with absence. but she pulls them to one, and there are no cobwebs on the handle to prove its disuse, there's no rust, no decay, for buildings are better about hiding abandonment, if nothing thinks to hurt them. the knob is slick, keys are hard to hold, but it yields to her, and she pulls them into its darkness.
the sound of rain follows them through the open door, and runs down covered windows, against the roof, against the walls. no lights come on to greet them, no people, no sound. it's no house of hers, no apartment or secret penthouse. it smells like a library, and a cellar. books, older than the building, older than the street, or the neighborhood; some carried over oceans, and older than states and nations. here is dust, here is cobweb, here is a den for the smallest lives to find refuge.
her shoes click-clack on the heel and squiiiish on the soles, and she pulls him away from the storm, under thresholds into some back room, past desk and table and glasses stained with drinks never finished. beyond that, a couch, old leather, a blanket in disarray on one end, half to the wooden floor.
her hand squeezes his, trying to get blood pumping (into her hand? into his?), pulling him that way, and no amount of whiskey or marlowe was going to mask this copper. her lips move to speak command—here, sit, easy, careful—but how is she meant to get words out, with her heart lodged up so high in her throat? ]
HOLDS UR HANDS HOLDING OUR FACES
they slip from one alley to another, front to back, and every door is closed, is locked, is dark with absence. but she pulls them to one, and there are no cobwebs on the handle to prove its disuse, there's no rust, no decay, for buildings are better about hiding abandonment, if nothing thinks to hurt them. the knob is slick, keys are hard to hold, but it yields to her, and she pulls them into its darkness.
the sound of rain follows them through the open door, and runs down covered windows, against the roof, against the walls. no lights come on to greet them, no people, no sound. it's no house of hers, no apartment or secret penthouse. it smells like a library, and a cellar. books, older than the building, older than the street, or the neighborhood; some carried over oceans, and older than states and nations. here is dust, here is cobweb, here is a den for the smallest lives to find refuge.
her shoes click-clack on the heel and squiiiish on the soles, and she pulls him away from the storm, under thresholds into some back room, past desk and table and glasses stained with drinks never finished. beyond that, a couch, old leather, a blanket in disarray on one end, half to the wooden floor.
her hand squeezes his, trying to get blood pumping (into her hand? into his?), pulling him that way, and no amount of whiskey or marlowe was going to mask this copper. her lips move to speak command—here, sit, easy, careful—but how is she meant to get words out, with her heart lodged up so high in her throat? ]