If I recall correctly my voice sounds like the month of May. It sounds like rain on Saturday when it doesn’t sound like a field of cotton sometime around 1928. It sounds like smooth jazz in a smoke-filled speakeasy. Like dark chocolate carved with a knife. Like the scent of sweet tobacco coming from my pipe.
My laugh sounds like bourbon on the rocks snug in a tumbler placed atop a velvet-lined coaster. It sounds like long, silver cigarette filters extended all the way to tomorrow and on into next week. It sounds like a hushed conversation in the dimmest corner of a dusky bar with words spoken just under the tinkling of piano keys. It sounds like warm honey drenched in sweat, like babies breath placed at one’s feet. Like fresh squeezed lemonade amidst summer’s heat and the blues sang on the off beat.
Every now and again I think about opening my mouth. Every once in a great while I think about letting them out.
(February 18, 2008)
No comments:
Post a Comment