// JANUARY

ANIKA PRAKASH

 
 

The evening is always abysmal, when shopping

lists become signs of faith. Footsteps like wisps

of smoke, hinged breaths released like seatbelts

unbuckled. God, just watching these snowflakes

spiral, hot water being drained from a porcelain

bathtub. I swear there’s quiet somewhere.

I swear there’s static and clean snow. There’s

nothing to feed the life inside here, just empty

glasses and hollow wood, just enough to dream.

Is there someone who’ll breathe life into four

walls, a ceiling, and a floor? But feathers are not

enough. The bluejay outside stole thread from

my sweater. I watched it unravel like fabric after a

thunderstorm as I sat on the floor, dust settling
around me.

 

 
 

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