Carpet Fibers

Carpet Fibers by Romy Walter

I remember the first time I curled my hair, it singed. The burnt hair smell mixed with the melted plastic from my rainbow hair extensions, filling my bedroom to the brim with the smell of char and frustration. By the time I got to curl yours, I hope I did better.

Your hair was beautiful, soft, dark brown with a slight curl at the ends; I hate the thought of ruining it. To tint its normal lilac and roses with the smell of smoke seems blasphemous; I imagine it feels so bad as ripping the wings from an angel. I know you know I loved that smell; lilac. It drew me to you, had me stuck to you like a fly buzzing around, looking to taste your perfume.

Your house lingered of craft paper, I’ve always wondered how long you’d have to do origami till you smelled of it. Your dog used to eat the paper. You’d pry open his mouth only to be met with a strangely turquoise inside. That beagle would sneak it when we’d get talking on your itchy bedroom carpet. When I say ‘get talking’, I mean that you’d talk and I get lost in the way your lips move. I should associate that carpet with bad things, red knees rubbed raw, the ugly, washed-out tan color, but I really don't. I just associate you, you and all the nights you’d spend painting my nails hot pink. The sleepovers where you’d insist on sleeping next to me. The nights when only one blanket lay over us. The sleepovers where our calves might’ve touched, and you didn’t squirm.

I wish so badly that I kissed you then, straight on the mouth, till our lips were rubbed as raw as our knees. I wish I had done it when it was still romantic, when it still would’ve been whimsical, there on the floor where only the beagle’d see. Now I only see you from yards away at reunions. Sometimes I’ll catch your eye, but we don’t speak for whatever reason. May that be the obvious tension we’re both aware of, or the primal urge to ignore it, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Still, it makes me nauseous to envision you all alone up in New York. You’ve gotta get lonely. You don’t have the beagle anymore, and I know you’re probably better off if you don’t have me. Even if it's selfish, part of me wishes you did. Have me. Maybe you could’ve had me for a blip, just a moment. Maybe for just one night on those bad carpet floors, the smell of lilac and paper engulfing us as we move in the dark. Maybe I really could’ve tasted your perfume, taste the lilac beneath tones of faint alcohol and sweat.

When it was still whimsical, still passionate, and romantic. And god, I hope I didn’t burn your hair. I hope someday you let me curl it again.