you want to live there

by amy sharp


In the middle of my brain there is a room full of words. It looks old and weathered like a graffiti bridge and it has a record of all the people that matter most to me. I like to imagine everything is written on one continuous scroll of paper, like the way Kerouac wrote "On the Road" and it unravels and rolls out like a highway when I want to recall the way you look when you are laughing or the way she stands with her feet turned inward. I know how to enter the room no matter if I'm on a bus barreling towards the city or sitting quietly with my hand absentmindedly touching my collarbone. It's like a phone number you never forget. A face that won't fade away.