Yellow Sweater

The apartment was full of warm light. It was nestled near the top of one of Manhattan's highest towers. The storm thrashed the floor to ceiling windows with harmless theatrics.

The bulky mass of white noise 
is gently buzzing. 

Tightly woven nothingness, 
I attempt to unravel with confused fingers. 

Under the whirling plastic fan, 

I have always identified, rather sheepishly, as an intellectual. Considering that I am interested in linguistics, classical history, and mathematical philosophy, It’s the only title that has fit.

The cement can only soak up so much rain. 
The sidewalk shimmers.

Full. 

Then the water collects in invisible cracks. 
It pools in gutters and teapots
and saturates our shoes, 
our sandals, 

The world is blurred around the edges
as I sit listening to my mother 
read a summery of our music.  

I can’t form sentences.  
I can’t delineate denotations from connotations. 

Her lips were curled into the hollow of a tulip. 
She smiled, filling me with a tiny spring.  

We were quiet,
hiding from the clouds, 
from the loudness of our spoken selves,