quite often he lies to make things more believable
than they are.
he likes to make things more believable
than they are.
and it is more than pretending:
it is a way of making the world soft
cosy.
the snow isn’t cold
(but the temperature of your childhood bedroom)
the wind doesn’t bite
(but it purrs and stretches, and waves at your legs)
the clouds are actually made of marshmallows
really, it is all very common
since he gets up at seven,
and is at work by nine,
and drinks coffee,
and counts the days till the weekend,
and is sick of those morons from the accountancy,
and eats stale sandwiches from the cafeteria because he can’t be bothered to cook
and his name is smith.
it used to be different:
not the name, but what the name means.
being sixteen feels as close as the shirt he is wearing;
he must remember.
he must, since under the layers
he is soft
embarrassingly white
and there is no aim.
then his mother calls.
some cousin is getting married
green and white, bad food, sniffing relatives at the first, second, and fourteenth pew.
there, there is the skilfully hidden question,
the ticking of clock,
the wistful sigh of a middle-aged woman aching to be a grandmother.
well,
it is all very well for her,
but no, thank you.
no, thank you.
(that idea is the scariest thing imaginable.)
but it works.
slowly, it works.
so when he meets this one girl
he thinks that might be it.
perhaps, he can learn
perhaps, anything is possible
(again)
perhaps, this isn’t so scary at all
(yes it is
yes it is
yes it is)
he will be oh so careful,
he’ll tell her only the true things
he’ll be silent most of the time.
it feels like a countdown
to the end of the ends.
it feels like standing naked in the snow.
it is the best feeling in years —
this freedom to offer
everything
it takes forever
he’s waiting for tomorrow.
— Katariina Kottonen, November 24th, 2010