Quick Time

Four Folds on her skirt
Four Pleats that she holds under her hand
She outlines the rough bits with her finger
tracing a seam of crooked piping
while she chastises herself about her inertia

but she doesn't move.
Instead
She thinks about this morning
which like all the others
holds a quiet promise of verisimilitude
which reminds her of a nervous tick she can't help

So she switches gears and thinks about yesterday
and a call she received
Something he said evokes a mild feeling of disappointment
she touches the folds in her dress again

Finally, with a sigh, she stands
and treads along the wooden floor in her bare feet
To the closet
where she crisply sorts through wooden hangers
that have glided across the span of this space
too many countless times

something unforgiving
buzzes behind her eyes
And she stops to gaze at a wrinkle on her hand she's never seen
before
She is immobile
Frozen in her thought
she imagines herself as a Polaroid
a square image out of focus
flat and poorly taken

till she notices
the silence that surrounds her
It seems as if
something has shifted, but glancing around
Eveything is exactly
as it always was

what was it, she was trying to recall?
Something in his eyes, voice
The way he looked at her
But he's not the one she was thinking about
And the memory of him seems worn and faded
Just as the voice yesterday was a rerun
watched too many times

And looking down at the folds of her skirt again
the thought finally seeps into her mind
but like all thoughts she turns it over
and finds no absolution in it's birth

So she sits down on the bed again
still half dressed
and folds her thoughts around her.