life untitled

it's like an ambulance caught between windowpanes. light from a tunnel and it's as green as the ground you're standing on. then blue like your father's favorite paint, still there, still wet from being left outside. rains run down the window but only in chile where she once sat looking at travel brochures. glossy and creased and three years old with a twin tower skyline but she didn't know. she told me i said gracias wrong and i asked her how and she showed me with her lips and i said thank you. that's what they do when it rains on the coast, she said.

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glass comes from light and she came for me with a portable record player whispering tchaikovsky's symphony no. 4. the light came through the glass like the end of night shift. i'm awake. i'm awake.

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she wrote something on her napkin, folded it up, and pushed it across the table to me. she smiled and leaned in toward me. i smiled and leaned back against the chair and took a sip from my tea. open it she told me and i laughed and looked out the window and the parking lot was almost empty now and she told me to open it. i took my napkin from my lap and wiped the creases of my lips. she reached for her napkin but i told her okay, i'll read it. i leaned forward to open it up and she leaned back against her chair. the frost on the window catches the light and holds it longer than a breath.

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green like the green you're standing on and blue like the brightest night.