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The Origins of Beauty

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Rain

I am sitting by my window taking notes on the way the sidewalk kisses the rain, when I realize I am sad. I found out today that like perfectly mussed hair and the pink of a rabbit’s ear, rain does not stay for cocktails after dinner. Being the gentlest, rain leaves the bed cold, leaves her lover dreaming.

I am leaning, back against the same window letting my tongue and nose kiss rain itself, when I realize I am pitying myself. I have been reaching for the hum of tires on wet asphalt, drawing unfamiliar shoulders into mine just to taste a different heartbeat. I have been drinking until my eyelids become as warm as my throat.

Aging

Picking dates off of my grandmother’s tree is like the kindness?of a kitten’s tongue. It is like the pale small of your back, the arrow of freckles?on the bridge of a lover’s nose. When I wake up feeling young, I think about dented bumpers, sex, and starved children, until I am sufficiently depressed?and ready to start the day. As I ease the kinks from a rusty ladder, I am thinking of the people that climb 28, 438 of these?just to taste flight.?I am thinking of how those people must be?pretty damn unhappy?if they can stand the scratch of rust beneath their fingernails. I am picking dates off of my grandmother’s tree. My grandfather sits with his legs crossed. His throat pulsates, constricting and strangling the last piece of pumpkin pie. Picking fruit from trees has to be the most beautiful thing.
Winter

It is two days after thanksgiving and I am stopping to let a car pass, when I realize this is not my family's Winter. He is rummaging in his garage looking for what lights up his Winter and when we find them, I am wrapped in needles that make me feel warm inside. Just like that cup of Eggnog I have never tried before. Just like the fireplace I have never sat in front of before. Just like roasting chestnuts and straightening your lover's stocking for what it's about to receive—no. This is not my family's Winter. My father is Spanish opera and beer mixed with sprite. My mother is the reindeer wrapping paper, purchased eleven years ago. I am the broken nutcrackers and the cinnamon sprinkled atop the pumpkin pie. I am those Christmas lights in his garage. Today is winter.
Beauty

I am sitting far from the window trying to retell the origin of beauty: picking daisies, gapped teeth, the sound of rain. But when I finally pick up my pen, there is complete stillness. Maybe another day.



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