pretty words

so the book is bound to begin. i looked up at the iridescent wine glass on my side table, plum full of sparkling water, and the bubbles said to me 'no one sees us the way you do'. the light shining on the languid lazy slowdancing bubbles, bathed in pink green milk pastel sheen. bare rainbows in the thinnest glass that a thought could break. and i think my mother may have ruined me at age four; playing a word game she invented in which we'd take turns stacking adjective upon adjective to describe something pretty. dovetailing and piling on words for beautiful things. gilding the lily, a hill, unicorn, hair. 

and the sadness imbued by this water glass. pale colors, calm posture. open-mouthed, long stemmed solidity, clarity.

my mother may have ruined my chances at harnessing the hardness of the world. but yet i must thank her my budlike burgeoning. we must toast the encouraging tiny needly burbles of air that hold their breath underwater