Surustu

I'm from the French Garden in Jonathan's Room, To my own stifled closet full of Delia's jeans. I'm from anything cooked in Georgia's home-style, To fair food as heart-stopping as the carnival rides. I'm from the swung speech of a Southerner's twang, To the capricious talks of "redeeming reputations." I'm from viewing a world with my Grandmother's eyes, To painting the sights with my Aunt's hands. I'm from silent nights spent in silent books, To chattering pencils speaking scratchily on paper. I'm from sidewalks colored like TV static, To shoe ornaments on the wires dangling above them. I'm from journeys taken by my brother's

Dear Stranger, I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress). You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something