possibly worth de-constructing into phrases?

[barry comer]

The Sleepless Voyeur

Floating above the curb, she could see her sister’s image catching shadows along the bedroom walls. They hopped suddenly within the folds of her dress, and the light that was loosely focused. The sheets and pillows were thrown aside, leaving tiny impressions of the
mattress exposed, and of accidents she never revealed.

Hoping to gather more purpose to her cause, sister hung forward with an outstretched arm and leaned griplessly closer. She was dragging a leash attached to nothing but the crepe of dimly lit books and a dressing mirror. The mirror framed portions of the room not seen from outside. Lush plants climbed the wall exposing nothing more than beige tinted plaster and a poster of Monet’s “Houses of Parliament”. It was taped with little regard to
the composition with borders hidden - lost in fog.

Within the painting, sister’s image was scrawled like notes from a journal full of fantasy. This will be her self-portrait, a wondering of a cloud lying closest to the ground. Without sun, sister’s story evaporates into the breeze. No one is listening to the edges of her poster, that painted her life.

In her hallway I hear, “we sing a life of hazards, we slam so many doors”.

As the images became dark velvet, the light of candles fill her bathroom. The single vanity is a 60’s apartment model, and propped by silver legs. The mirror above is open, revealing bottles of rub, an etched glass and the secret slit to capture worn blades. Sister’s favorite colors are everywhere. She has draped sea foam towels and fish-shaped soaps in decorator jars. Although not visible, the bath mat lives in white, along the porcelain strip.

Sister has always admired the cracks in the tiles, finding images of familiar friends. They are carved from years of wiping, detergents and glances. Too many tenants have rented “the cove” that now bears her name with a white, paper strip. She doesn’t know how many were slipped before, but often observes the fingered prints around her address. Evidence of trips to the grocery and balled lint from pockets breeze along the currents of life in building 1923, West Parkway, SW.

“Evidence of lives pushed further by want”.

My street side theater is shimmering with headlights that obscure the advantage being shared. Each year I visit and take inventory of her domain.


End of observation 1.

[GinaDCG]

I am intrigued, but want more time for more detailed readings before I compose the comment your piece deserves. The weather here -- first time we've had real winter in over 10 years -- has made my usual life routines more protracted and slow. I grow old, I grow old and (given the amount of snow and I can't find my gators) I (should) wear the cuffs of my pants rolled.

[GinaDCG]

Yes, intriguing. I have not read or seen "The Lovely Bones," but since I am alive on this planet I know something about the story. And your piece reminds me of it. Is the narrator taken to be a ghost? Is this to be part of a grouping of similar observation/pieces?