What must you think of me?
she’s burning to ask
at the risk of sounding insecure
if she said it without hesitation
eyes, milky with honesty
tone, dry like sandpaper tongues
vein, pumping blood sideways on her forehead
it would be enough if he said
I think of you
One day, last summer, I was riding the Long Island Railroad back to my Aunt’s house from a training day for an internship. I felt like I was going to bleed out through the blisters on my feet and my entire body was throbbing like I had run a marathon. So, I put in my earphones and watched a woman put on her makeup while riding the train.
As my summer nears a close in LA, I’ve become more aware of what that means in the next week. It’s Thursday. I leave on Tuesday to go home to Virginia. From Virginia, I’ll drive to New York City to move into my dorm. So, I’m trying to plan my last few days here. I’ve been so excited to get out of LA that I haven’t put much thought into what I’ll miss.
“Still water runs deep.” That’s a cliche that my grandma uses when people surprise her. When I was younger, she would tell me that my mom was always her quiet child but that she got married and had children first. So, still water runs deep, meaning that people are humming and pulsing beneath their exterior.
I’m a fan of routines. In New York I would get up every Saturday morning and get coffee. Then, I would drink my coffee in the fountain in Washington Square Park. Sometimes, I would draw and other times I would just people watch. Then, I would go to the library and finish some work. By noon, I would have the entire rest of the day to go on an adventure or run errands. However, I’ve never had a “normal” LA Saturday.
I first learned the word facade/façade in middle school. We were learning about French art and architecture. The teacher put a slide of a church on the overhead projector, one of those crude, cumbersome machines with sheer printouts. She explained that the church had a false front or a façade. I remember thnking to myself (I wasn’t vocal in my younger and more vulnerable years) “why not make something through and through? Why put up a facade?”
If LA were a woman, she would be incredibly charming. Universally, those who saw her would deem her attractive. No one would disagree that she was multi-faceted. She’s the kind of woman who tosses her head back in laughter so that her collarbones could reflect the stale, four o’clock sunlight.