Warsaw in winter: vodka with dinner and the autonomy of sneaking out windows to unpaved back roads where the dear hunters roar, spewing buckshot and noise. I paid what you owed, but it wasn’t my choice. The Warsaw nights were marked by suspense. She didn’t speak English so one of her friends helped me order a drink that tasted like soap which gave me the courage to ask her to go in my most broken Polish with etherized tongue. Those days, there was more gray in the sun and it made my eyes itch and contacts dry up.

Warsaw in winter: vodka with dinner and broken old shades shining slats onto sinners who fumble with ziplocks and then ask for scissors. Is the sun going down or are we growing dimmer? By the end of December your eyes looked like screens that glow ever in offices, sleeping machines that are only pretending so no one will touch. I felt your mouse click and I heard your fans hum on Pryzlaski Street outside of Tomasz’s. Your pockets were filled with my fingers and lozenges combating coughs that I’ve harbored for months. But it’s harder to notice at all if I’m drunk and paying a cab with strangely colored cash or asking some punk if he could spare a match I’ve got more coughs to cry before I fall asleep. Did I tell you my foster mom thought I was neat? I did not have the heart to ruin her room and I need a ceiling with views of the moon to help keep perspective and lock me in place. In Warsaw each girl briefly wore your face before changing to strangers and crossing their arms. In the Warsaw nights, we got kicked out of bars more often than not so we started to want to accept our rejection and offer protection to all of the other drunk fuck-ups like us.

I remember this picture: Warsaw in winter. Every night we drank vodka with dinner. The sun stayed out longer and my arms grew thinner.

~ by perfectionatrix on March 30, 2010.

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