the painter's poet
writings from onna hui

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Lukewarm

With the sound of the faucet running, she closed her eyes and patted
her face wet.  She remembered the passion-plum walls, the black
accents, and their ability to swallow her entire existence.  She recollected the
rolling scenes of a darkened evening sky, occasionally saturated by low-lit,
awkward orange street bulbs.  She recalled leaning against the bathroom door
frame and watching the shifting imagery project across her large bedroom
window and cast shadows onto the ceiling.  Like an old film reel. 
Sirens.  Periodic shouts.  It was beautiful, all of it.

She turned off the faucet.


--
Originally published in 2011
Revised in 2014