Still

Only my stirring breaks the silence in the house as I walk towards the kitchen. I grab an unwashed wine glass from the counter ignoring the rings of wine staining the glass, the outline of my lips, and fingerprint smudges. Once again, the fragile goblet welcomes a plunging stream of red wine that lashes the sides almost cresting above the rim. I find solace in simple fermentation after eying the dishes looming in the sink and the understated disarray in the house that gnaws at me having had succumbed to procrastination days before.

I fill the sink with water, watching the suds rise and topple over the plates. It’s too quite, I can’t even hear my breath, sense my heartbeat. I must be elsewhere. Music will tune me in.

My thoughts unload themselves with the help of lyrics that unfortunately work into the layers of my subconscious moving at the speed of light. I swipe the soapy sponge over a fork, a plate – I sip from my glass between rinsing as if it were naturally part of the task – I cut my finger with a knife…ignore it. I go on as a tear wells up in my eye from a different, rooted pain.

Dishes done, I sit on the counter curled up, drinking, holding onto the glass as if it’s going to cure what’s inside.