Pulse

I?ve become seasonal. Season-affected. Unfolding in the sun, hanging heavy in the rain, a spark-of-sunshine smile cracked through blanket cloud. I watch the cars pause and the people chattering inside, fishbowl tongues flapping. White water, white water, white water.

I sit at the back of the tram next to a man in a long coat. The hem falls against my leg. He moves, shifting his weight, and it brushes the side of my knee. A jolt runs through me. I remember conversations, words caught on breath, like condensation on a cold morning, clouding the space between us and then disintegrating. Here?s a little thing we made together, behind the walls, in shadowy water.

Genius eludes me, so I write a message to myself and pretend it?s from a God I don?t believe in. I write it on my arms, a quiet moment on busy skin.

?There?s nothing wrong with being cerebral, honey.?

Even this euphoria has wet feet. I pull a piece of apple skin from my teeth?the things you find in your mouth?and I suck on it until I?m sore.