Reading With My Hands: Journal Entry 346

a pleasure watching people watch people. to see them interpret what they view, from the distance of not being involved, but desperately wanting to be, hoping to be, a part of the viewing

walking form wherever, tired on my mind, hopping on the 4 train, i see us both leaning against doors, backs to the tracks, breathing the air foggy in subway cars built before we aged enough to bury our crowns, us, black men, reading. paperbacks. me noticing this feels off

i bought a footlong Blimpie sub and two bags of chips, but after the 1st half, felt i could not finish the rest. but i knew i would run into a homeless person before i reached the train station, which was 3 blocks away, and i did. me knowing this, this too, feels off

sometimes they have little features: small lips and such. big eyes, could be a dancer. black dress, long, to the calves almost. other times, its short shorts, a piece of tatt exposed, bronzed skin, Korean maybe, rough guess. she’ll speak to the man at the coffee shop who uses his hands to talk because he cannot hear words

it could also be him. he will describe the world with no sounds to emit. he will be older than you and i, but smarter than us both

she will be putting fingers in her mouth, in a sundress, being held by someone that could play her mother in real-life. fancy they love the person with the small body as much as God loves everything

i saw the one doing dance moves in black slim fit jeans, hat brim tilted, pin rolls pining for attention, with freckles pinging about her cheeks. bright smile. she ordered and sat next to the melanin enhanced, cocoa sister next to her, and they shared love across their cheeks

this is how
i will remember
my time here
the most

cosmic.