A conversation bright with smiles and laughter.
A silence that fills voids and speaks unto itself.
I can feel the threads pulling, weaving together.
The unsteadiness of a swoon.
I look down to secure my balance, my confidence.
Wondering if the emotion I feel spill through my chest
is moving in a line or a circle.
The friction between graphite and paper.
Its drag on the paper a catharsis, like digging for secrets
through rock laden earth.
An easily broken trowel
still capable of excavating caverns
long covered over by the soil of denial.
The sounds of it like the plaguing questions we spare answering
for we still aren’t ready to hear the truth.
The hiss of roiling pots on a stove throwing water upon the flames
attempting to douse them.
The staccato of nagging realities
The swoop of a blotted memory
The scritch of all that haunts your mind when sleep is due.
But also,
The call to slow down, and release this weight within you
before you sink through the silt.
The glassy top of a quiet lake grows wings as the fowl land upon it.
The disruption makes waves that lap to the shore fraying its once still edges. The sudden sounds crack the quiet facade. Some modest, some taunting and shrill.
The surface breached by ravenous beaks and bills. Below, the chaos is churned by the need for survival.
The fish, like pieces of the lake, who believed they would always be there.
In a raucous mounting the birds have gone, reinstating the serenity as if untouched, save one pristine feather upon the lakes face floating gracefully.
The shallow breaths of pleasure shudder from us as if we are incapable or undeserving of wielding such a power.
An expansion elicited from intimacy, doors and windows splintered open by the maelstrom. A frightening sort of joy.
Chaos and clarity converge, pinched together in fleeting moments.
Not just naked but boneless and skinless in an avalanche, we eschew our defenses for a feeling just like the greatest victory.
We assign it a sanctity, we imbue it with divinity for nothing so monumental can only be made from what is within us. As if a greater power intervenes and gifts this delight.
We are only human but in these moments we are emboldened to forget
Warmed by the concrete as it tries to shine like the sun. The tepid breeze indicates my time on this slab is slipping away quickly.
I handle the heat like a I handle conversations with a crush, with fret and eventual incoherence. My red cheeks so piqued they long to melt.
The quiet scream of bugs create a zen that thwarts my sweating discomfort.
I close my eyes and enter the orange world of midsummer. Recollecting the flowers before they became earth again.
Alas my scorching posterior and the drip of my hydrations undoing drives me inside.
As my visages crimson hue returns to flesh again, I guzzle a glass of the most satisfying water nature has ever created.
That dream has returned.
The one in which the world is constructed in perilous angles
And the clouds viscously ooze through the sky.
Azure lightning returns the sky in microscopic moments,
Like the small shreds of hope you find in your darkest moments
And you are there, but only in those azure moments
That dark strand, that glorious strand that stuck wet to his forehead, underlined by eyebrows and almondine eyes. Brown like earth or the dark wood from an ancient tree all leading to the cave of his pupils. There was safety there, or danger. How could I know and why should I care when his regal nose fit so perfectly on his face.
The bow on his lips collected his natural dew. I watched it pool then drip as if to spare his tender lips. As if even the drops of his running sweat felt unworthy to touch them.
When he smiled, his whole face did and everything within me that could flutter, gurgle, bubble, or twist did, and all at the same time.
I handed him his ball back knowing my face was a flushed as his with only this wave of emotion to blame. With a nod he was gone and it was then that I finally exhaled.
Today was the first time I pictured a funeral.
The hearing of poems and songs I secretly socked away next to my hope.
The ones I always denied would have any meaning to me, not really.
I can hear them blaring through the cheap speakers, crackling at crucial moments in the verses. This would be my coping mechanism, my release from sadness parsed out in tons upon me. The net on my eyes that could catch my tears before they fell.
The pops, the hisses like pressure valves, the distortion my ohm.
The barrier that could hoard my grief away from those who are trying with all their might to share it but never could, not really.
The Mewriginal 