my favorite stranger,
hey there, sweet one. where have your thoughts brought you lately? just to check in before we chat, things are picking up on the book-writing front again, so I may dwindle in and out of our conversations for a while, but I’ll let you know when I can step both feet into them again.
oh, december,
these cold blue mornings. I wake to walk the dog and the street lamps are still on. it’s too frigid to go without gloves now; hands buried into coat pockets, absentmindedly rubbing quarters, cough drop wrappers, and TSA luggage tags. the alarm rings and the world rolls over to press snooze. winter. I’m writing a lot about seasons lately, but I’m also a poet, so maybe it’s not as out of character or annoying as I worry.
I am thinking of:
strung dried oranges and cinnamon sticks. coffee flavors like sugar plum fairy-ccino.
the scene in Another Earth where Brit Marling undresses in an icy field, naked skin against the wind. she tucks herself into the snowbank to stare at the stars, and lies there, shuddering like Kansas cellar doors, watching, until her lips are painted bruise.
Bach’s Cello Suites, No. 1 in G Major. as if I can see the nimble, careful fingers climbing up and down the cello’s neck. I imagine the metal threads pressed under my touch. I imagine the flutter of focused hands across my throat.
future winters of hard frost. scraping the windshield and feeling heat collect in my armpits under four layers of polyester.
a countdown until my next kiss.
I am wearing:
a scabbed burn from thanksgiving. I skimmed my arm against the oven’s jaw and didn’t notice until reaching for my toothbrush.
nothing before bed. tucking myself into the bed’s open palm, naked skin under my heaviest comforter. staring at nothing, a loose thread curled tight enough, my pinky grows a second heartbeat, wrapping and unwrapping, until sleep lowers my eyelids. until the fabric fades from my hands.
whisps of a few guilty nightmares.
the wish for snowflakes to tangle in my eyelashes.
I am craving:
wonton soup.
a trip to a storm spa. a soak in a warm pool with rainwater poured overhead, and a projection of a turbulent thunderstorm erupting across the surrounding four walls. to bathe in the heart of a violent sky. to swim where lightning won’t reach me. one of the many new experiences TikTok has exposed me to that I now can’t stop thinking about.
hickies to hide under my new collection of turtlenecks.
quiet mornings of reading. even smaller, soundless nights of writing. so much more time.
I’ve never missed snow like I do right now. the cool and quiet crunch under every footstep. I wear a holly-leafed cardigan to work and have therapy in an hour. how do I set boundaries with my father, should he come back to my life. how can I believe I’m worthy of my own success. will I say the heavier word for affection without breaking into a sweat. christmas eve, I’ll duck out of the wind and feel the heater kick on from a marooned seat at the movie theater. I’ll do more than buy myself necessities and call it a gift.
a skyscraper I used to live by is visible from tonight’s walk home and for a moment, we stare each other down. the building, the moon, and me. a time I lived alone, frequently in tears of bliss and fear, I’d walk out into the courtyard and enjoy the closest to quiet you can get between ambulance blares and glowing neon bars. an uninvited thought walks in. am I still there? is it not gone forever? somewhere, does that moment still exist? the sharp winter air leaves its shoes on while climbing into my throat.
too often, december has been synonymous with survival. will you help me push the dirt over that tradition? come help me press paper snowflakes to the window. would you prefer hot chocolate or tea? you can leave your shoes by the door. it’s safe to hope again. it’s safe to rest again.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
wonton soup fund (venmo): schuylerpeck
I love the way you write!
Your posts are like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day. So comforting, so needed ❤️