Silk

The creamy white liquid splashes out of the tiny circular hole. Glug glug glug, as it jumps into my silent porcelain bowl. I hear the shuffle of the corn flakes from the box in my hand. Shaking it up, rustling like an eager morning. I sit down on the warm wooden bench, the sun streaming in through the window. Outside of my echo park kitchen, I see a palm tree — past the Jurassic leafiness, I gaze at downtown LA. A silhouette of a silhouette of a city. Springing up through the landscape like concrete trees, only to live as long as the businesses they hold.

I imagine all the city workers, buzzing about 5th and flower. Dark navy brooks brother suits hanging across confident shoulders, black Motorola RAZR phones held to one ear, black coach briefcases swinging low to the other side. Taxi cabs honk. The walk sign changes at the cross-walk, walk to don’t walk. Orange hands, pixelated in my imagination, but solid as a concrete wall.

Back in my room, I strum my guitar softly. Feel the grooves of the steel strings under my fingertips. Hear the frets whispering, telling me secrets of my heart, if only I’d listen.