I'LL JUST SHUT THE CURTAINS SO YOU WON'T WAKE UP

you are the sand surrounding crocodile's legs. you are the half moon in the daylight. the broken chair in the kitchen.  the speed at which clothes tumble through the laundry chute. the wallpaper's destroyed and faded design. the loss of my favorite yellow cardigan.  the way the window sticks.  you were wearing a feathered blouse and a string of colors around your head. your shoes were orange. i don't care for orange but i liked your shoes. i didn't know what to think of it then, but i wish i'd have said something of importance. nothing with meaning came out of my mouth then, i hadn't had time to prepare for this, and you, in your feathered blouse and string of colors and terrible orange shoes, could have shown me the entire world. and i knew it. my mouth left frozen and stuck and longing to explore your mannerisms.