poetry
Comment 1

Hardwood Floors

I had forgotten how much I like Bjork. Her voice is like warm blankets with dripping snow outside.

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I miss Pennsylvania.
I miss warm blankets with dripping snow outside.
I miss hardwood floors in the morning and
the absolute quiet of mountainous nights.
I miss old stone houses that breathed
if you knew how to listen and
basements where you never felt at ease with the shadows.
I miss a landscape that was made of the best parts of a woman-
all curves and dips and rises that begged to be explored.
I miss being able to be naked outside
because the true outside was everywhere.
I miss staring at the deer who hung out in our yard and
having picnics in green grass with my sisters and brother,
reading them Anne Rice and flying kites and chasing balls
while our mother lived away at her job.
I miss learning to use a lighter the first time I got stoned and
needing to be carried home the first time I drunk:
New Year’s Eve, sixteen, and blacked out before midnight.
I miss friends who were kind enough to wipe my ass and change my clothes
and deliver me to my mom at 5am in one piece.
I miss the Poconos outside of car windows and long drives into Philly.
I miss the Delaware emerging as we got closer to the city
with a light show so brilliant it earned the envy of the stars.
I miss South Street that was all color and voodoo shops and
art sewn into every building and paved into the sidewalks.
I miss talking to the old man who ran the bookshop beside the library, and
I miss the Free Library like a once-homeless child
might miss her old, secret spot beneath a bridge.
I miss real winters.
I miss warm blankets with dripping snow outside and
cold, hardwood floors to greet my feet.

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