pajamas and lemons.

i look everywhere and i see metaphors. inside the take out containers lined up on a pass thru window, the grumbling man with greasy hair crossing the street. the skyline is a figment of imagined limitation and the sunset is morning. coffee grounds and preserved lemons and all of these things i touch throughout the day are more than the sum of their parts and yet they are all i have at times because i figure if i can't hold on to the way i saw the world at seventeen, at twenty, then i can at least hold onto this morning with my fists raised high as spit up dries on my pajamas like a scar, a medal, a talisman. i think about finn's genetic predilection for avoiding any and all cracks in the ground when she is walking because bryan says he used to do the same thing and i hang upside down on the couch and my house does not look like my house. it makes me remember a story i heard on radiolab about being lost and found and i felt a bit of kinship with the woman whose world would shift on her for no scientific reason. but this kinship is mine, alone. because all i have to do is sit upright and take a shower. sometimes i think i will be a great something or other when i grow up and sometimes i think i am so far from growing up i will miss the bus entirely. i also have an irrational fear of public transportation. and i think. perhaps this is the metaphor. all round numbers and silver locks.