by Colleen Wuertz
He told me he liked to stare at the pictures,
hanging on ghostly white museum walls. Spaced perfectly
like vertebrae on a spine the foundation of a divine
I replied that I would rather look out
of the window of a crowded subway car every
morning on the way to work. Unable to focus on
the blurred shapes beyond the glass, orange circles,
grey rectangles, black lines.
He said he liked the peace and quiet on the top floor
of the college library. And my mind flashed to the way
my breathing evens, at the sound of rubber tires
maneuvering wet pavement after the rain.
He laughed when I said sometimes I wish I could wake
up in a different city every morning. So I rolled my eyes
when he confessed he felt trapped by second thoughts
And he said he feels so free, walking home alone after a
long shift at the diner on the corner. The same way I
feel passing the graffiti covered brick walls
next to window displays lined with hundred dollar jeans.
On Saturday I am not aware, my fingers tracing the rim of
the glass in my hand like a needle circling a record. And
I can’t hear a thing at all, over the unanticipated memories.
He can’t hear a thing at all, above the numbness of his
Our demons they materialize so differently.
Burying themselves deep within your chest in the daylight,
ready to collapse all within you when the sun goes down
hiding behind the swaying trees.
He said he wished he could see the world, through anyone
else’s eyes. Because maybe then he would know what
it’s like, to escape a caged mind.
Colleen Wuertz is an English major born in Grove City, studying in Columbus, and interning at CD102.5. She’s still trying to figure out life in her ’20s and making things work in the meantime.