Ripple Effects

I reach across the table for a taste of hot mulled wine.
It is a small table, trimmed with tinsel and candlewax.
A miniature pine tree teeters slightly to the left, and my mind dances along with the peculiar velveteen santa claus dangling with an ironic grin.

My mother wears an azure suit to match her eyes, and I note her attention to exuding strength through softness.

My voice flits between Gilberto and Gheorghiu, the Ginsberg that's Allen and the Ginsburg that's Ruth, and I find it early in my journey to be deemed resigned.

I miss the way that sound feels when it ripples through my chest and and I miss the way that logic tastes when it settles in neat diagrams atop my coffee table.

I hold my breath and marvel at the symmetry of eyes.

Three short words find themselves tongue-tied in shifting unfitted sheets.
I let the clocks lurch forward so that I don't have to.

I'm speeding up a hill on rollerskates.

At least I know the consequence is happiness.