I woke with sun filtering through gauzy curtains.
There was lace on the pillowcases, photos of smiling strangers on the dresser, a pair of dirt-infused jeans draped over a chair in the corner.
I’d wake early to stretch kinks out of my back and shoulders, salute the sun slink to the bathroom through the dappled dark of basement dawn.
I’d eat, work spend afternoons panting up hills straps permanently etched onto my back and every night there was music. Dusty bottles, queens kings jacks and Jim followed by easy sleep. Weekends were fresh air and fires finding patterns in the flames.
I haven’t camped here though I know I will love it I hear you can sleep outside and there’s no shivering while your tent frosts and the stars stretch over the sand. The lights of Doha obscure all but three, yet in Duhkan I found the dog; it set eyes on the giant and gave chase. I'm left to find and follow like I do, swimming in the sky-sea with no river's invitation.
Running the gauntlet of homesickness every vegetable comes from red earth, the haze over the city strange from ground-level. The word for fog is learned in doodled golden bridges. Numbers on days have no relevance save to assignments; time hasn’t moved like this in years. I miss moments work my guilt out of choked melodies in the key of C.
I wake early and stretch kinks out of my back and shoulders, get distracted by books. Dogged through Bennet Pratt tears him to pieces and I cheer in fluorescent ink, silent entranced caffeine-fueled and scattered. I color milk flavored with cardamom into dissolving crystals of bastardized coffee until the haze turns to distracted sleep.
Oh! Darling, my shoulders hunch dibbling is nothing to the scholar hunch permeating every minute. I’ve thrown down the metal for bound paper sleep sober and late. Yet my eyes are still brown I still spend my money on peanut butter and lay under stars. The knots in my back can't keep me from the key of C.
Thumbnail: Maggie Schier | Studio City: Sam Miller