It’s 2 AM And I Don’t Know Why I’m Crying

mattia.venza
mattia.venza

I listen to this cat every night in my alley crying her soul out. She starts at 2 and doesn’t end until 6. I listen to her the entire time. I don’t know whether she is hungry, if she is lonely or if she just wants someone to hear her, so I listen. I am a combination of all three. So it should seem obvious that I know the source of my tears but I am an instrument of my heart. I don’t know why I cry. An enormous, disrespectful amount of water streams from the moons I call eyes that seep my face in a salt water as I hear this cat cry.

Sometimes it is me, sitting alone and staring, the burning sun in the middle of the day, on my face and I am nothing but space and time does not matter. I am sitting in a chair or a bed, a seemingly solid configuration of my reality and there is the sound of a trumpet or a saxophone, a smooth chocolate tone. I am the lines that have been configured on the screen, the words the have been laced, a proceeded line of language. I am peering at the other projection of lines, a projection of my reflection. I am a geometric pull of radiant beams, puffs of my African ancestry and melanin of that fiery Garinagu soul. I close my eyes, triangle face high, and a breathe a pang of fresh air, lingering smell of dried pineapples and tea and there you came on that breathe.

I am no longer. I am watching white– nothing but white, images concocted by a brain as defiant as mine or the sun speaking to me in my head, I do not know. Circles and swirls and whirls all in that white and am radiating, beaming, persisting.

I breathe in you. You glow, your skin of opposite parallel proportions and your mind an intricate dichotomy of what is this and who cares and I am “mommy told me no but somehow I found out along the way yes”.

You are May smelling of a summer day, circular kisses on a cool midnight.

You are smooth October so slick and cool, hexagon labels from your
fingers on my back.

You are April, so shameful, your straight lined steps, rain glistening down your August breathe.

You are blooming, seeping into my April skin I am born reborn.

You are December, remember that Snow White? Triangle stares from those eyes to my lips.

You are February, so hellishly, those volatile stares, you blew past me before you knew me those ungrateful delights.

I open my eyes, that cat high jacking my vivid meditation, my psychological memories, my Mecca of 2 AM…

Now I know the reason she cries. TC mark

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