i.
wet flour stuck to the insides of measuring cups.
her hair was three different colors and she had a smokers voice. raspy and low.
ashes from her ciggarette fell onto her wooden table, leaving a small smudge.
i never knew what her name was, but she baked. chocolate cakes with strawberry preserves was her specialty.
at least that's what i heard.
a small white phone was being held to her ear by her shoulder. she nodded every once and a while, acting like whoever she was talking to was right in front of her.
'don't worrry' she coughed, pouring a little to much sugar into her cake mix.
ii.
light spilled from a small lamp on your front porch, illuminating the snow on your lawn.
i started talking to snowmen and reindeer.
i told them how your eyes were such a wonderful shade of blue. like the flotsam and jetsam of the atlantic rested in them.
and i told them of lost ideas on milk cartons and soap box speeches of owls and string.
we drew angel wings on our fingers and lapsed into silence.
iii.
my mouth tasted like copper.
thanks for spitting in my face.
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