Patterns

Untitled | Audrey Plague |

 Patterns by Sarah Halle Sinks

A line of light rested on my bureau drawers this morning

like a birthmark taking the shape of curtains that rippled

like water patterns.

The blanket at the end of my bed, thick like honey

in the back of my throat, a spoonful of velvet,

night after  night it sits there forgotten. 

The glow of the party soon forgotten, 

words running off my tongue,  looping back each morning.

The blanket at the end of my bed still made of velvet, 

the shape of the curtains still rippled,

the back of my throat still full of honey,

lines of light crossing  my bureau still forming patterns.

I became used to the patterns, 

the only things I hadn’t forgotten

as I covered my apple slices with honey,

as I did every morning

The coffee in my cup rippled

as I twirled my spoon within its foamed milk, smooth as velvet

My words were soft like velvet,

Silk and smooth, my tone forming patterns

my own voice rippled,

 conversations  soon to be forgotten

by the swarm of the day as it dilutes the morning,

my lips are still sticky with honey.

Fingertips sticky with honey

as I curved them over the velvet 

steering wheel like the cold air curved over the morning,

the sky like morning breath as I watched the clouds’ patterns

a  kaleidoscope of  puzzle pieces easily forgotten.

I switched through the radio stations, listening as they rippled,

my legs curled under my sweatshirt, which rippled

around my waist, hugging me like honey,

As it hugs apple slices and silver spoons. I’ve never forgotten

what sugar tastes like in the back of my throat, where a spoonful of velvet

still sits, while I walk through the patterns,

morning after morning.

The blanket at the end of my bed still soft as velvet

as the light from the drawers traces patterns

From the curtains, slowly letting in the morning.