Koushik - Out My Window - Nothing’s the Same
[ Slighting ]
Reaping and sowing the good seeds. there is something about bad apples, though no need to worry for they are far from the bunches. Cracked mortar and third layers of paint that just chip off revealing the original faded color that triggers feelings since then not felt, soft, freshly laundered, warm, loosely knit, fingers pass over ribbed edges to help differentiate the sides from the ends before being whipped and floated into place, first try placements like first try second attempts at a feeling, duplicates, and backward text messages through translucent flyers raggedly taped to windows, dates long since gone by, he thought for second about trying to count the number of bubbles that float atop his coffee, but they kept leaving, and the bubbles in his tepid water that he drank out of a graduated cylinder held their place, another plant has died, and the tack that secured his piece of mind to the wall went missing a few days ago, he left a few inches of space enough room for her to leave when she wanted to all while knowing that she rarely leaves for anything, she’ll make it to the door sometimes, slowly turning the the knob and cracking the door to see if anyone other than he was around and on even more rare occasions she stepped foot outside, dressed as if she was going to see them again, perfumed, made up, umbrella clutched in case the rains came or the sun was too bright, or just because it made her feel that feeling of that one time every once in a while, she would step outside to feel what the weather was like on her skin, she would step outside just long enough to decide she should head back in through the side door, because she had already exited through the front door and there was no use in going back the way she came, she believed that, just like she believed she was right, just like she believed in general, for the most part, she reached for the keys, 17 of them attached to 4 key rings, attached to one another, not colored coded but marked rather by hash marks, hash marks that represented different things for each key, the hash marks meant different things for each key, the hash marks were different on each key, there was a difference in hash marks, but the hash marks were all created at the same depth, with the same distance in between each tiny line, the same angle on the fives, no number to be repeated, they were all for a different home, that led to a different bed, that found her in a different kind of quiet, those weren’t the key to her home, those were in the other pocket, just three keys, one for the front door, one for the side door, and the other for the door that let her into the third floor door that led to her apartment, no couches, six mismatching chairs, two living plants amongst the many browned dried and and dead, no blinds on any of the windows, dust tangled cobwebs in every corner, small char marks on the walls from the candles she lit daily, a spotless shiny lavender scented oak floor, no books, no radio, and an out of tune guitar, she almost made it there today. Maybe tomorrow.