conversations with Superman

yesterday, with my head pressed firmly against the far left cushion, close to sleep, still following the moving pictures on the television with my eyes, sounds filtering, nonsensical into my ears, i realized the fabric of my couch is hero blue. god, damn, i muttered to no one in particular.
I've always loved Superman.

"I am there" he whispered.

 "sitting on the far right back seat that you just quite but almost can't see. I'm in your right front pants pocket. At that spot on the inside of your left wrist where the blood might have been pumping under a watch face, if you wore one. I am the sound of compression breaks., The slow dull voice over-head calling out stops. all the way home. I am the familiar scent you always find at the same time foreign and familiar when you fold back the sheets and climb into bed. I am--each and every-- morning"
I told him how I'm folding in on myself. these days. trying to lose significance between the crisp holy pages of books. unsatisfied with the attempt -- unable to break the surfaces. Head empty or perhaps too full up. I sit for long moments and think about the smell of the ocean just after a rain. or my grandfather's  garage filled with the scent of car oils and perpetually decaying wood. I wander around this city in which i live. searching for something that i just can't quite remember. all the corners have lost their edges. and i'm numb to the sound.

and I just told him how I want to be his hippie dream.

All long haired twin braids and just the right amount of too many hemp necklaces and bracelets. Peasant blouses with skirts. The perfectly broken in pair of sandals. I'd always smell something like incense and tapioca pudding. And I'd be lovely without any makeup. Memories of me would make him think of daisies and sunshine and the smell of new rain.

 Not kitsch. Just right.