among the torn silks of phrase

the night was a van gogh dream, painted with planet-stars (and who could tell the difference, who but a half-slip moon that was swinging like a bitter drunk in the winter sky). all the mittens had frozen into the shapes of their fingers. the party-goers might have settled for the quiet un-explanations of strangerhood, but there was too much to say and they spelled it out with alphabet pretzels. this made their throats dry and left trails of salt on the insides of their hands.
she was thinking of a boy she hardly knew, one who lived on the other side of a hill that pried their city into such neat halves. how much she liked the kindness of his button-down shirts (which were always green) and the untangled contours of his smile. he would bring lukewarm styrofoam coffee or stale pastries wrapped in cellophane when her days grew very difficult. sometimes it helped. she was someone perplexed and a little sad and her hands were always full.
so she would follow the parties out into the night, wearing all her coats & tripping over the ice & the laughter. in the morning she would fall asleep watching stars through the window, hoping she might still wake to find their toes buried in the sunlight.