resurfaces like wreckage from forgotten ocean floors — rusted and heavy.
slowly rising and displacing all that lies in its path — disrupting the stillness of the shoreline to remind us that it has always been there. settled. sitting.
maybe it’s time to explore it?
this, beautiful wreckage.
sunken treasures have been found in more treacherous places — why should the memories and psychological remnants of yesteryear be any different?
why can’t there be treasure here, too?
why not, in me?
the righteous ones haven’t forgotten that they were wronged
they’ve simply chosen a higher path, instead of justified vengeance
you can’t look away, can you ¿
me neither •
staring into a noon sun has never burned so beautifully for either of us —
i never got the chance to thank you for hurting me before •
and i never apologized for wanting you so fiercely then leaving you so swiftly —
two relentless suns in an overcrowded sky •
right and left brain collisions are mini big-bangs that act as my alarm clocks and thrust my consciousness back into reality every morning •
differential equations and literary phrases wrap themselves around my spinal cord like colorful ribbons — attaching themselves to my nervous system and crossing all incoming and outgoing signals like when we first met years ago •
yes, I still remember too •
look up this song and listen to it •
maybe it could be ours, quietly ¿
let it all go and hold you instead.
i wish i could.
enveloped in these hopes that haven’t reached fruition yet.
i’m not sure if i worded that correctly, but formalities and grammatical correctness and order and systematic, scientific approaches lose their power when full hearts just want expression.
fruit. that’s the point i was making.
hanging in the balance, and from branches made of my worries and wishes.
is that what i said at the very beginning?
bitter nectar from sweet, round, soft skinned ornaments dangling from trees that i didn’t have the foresight or fortitude to plant myself when i had the chance.
but, you allow me to eat from them still.
i don’t get you.
not at all.
nor do I really want to.
how could you disregard all that i’ve done and didn’t do?
it doesn’t seem fair for you to love me unconditionally when conditions are all that i seem to have any control over lately—even that’s an illusion i’m sure.
i have no idea why i find myself attempting to jog the forgetful sea’s memory every chance i get.
it’s so difficult to run through water, but I still try.
can i come back to you again tomorrow?
of course you’d say ‘yes’.
of precious things being suddenly taken
of dreams being eventually realized
that when placed in front of the soul
reveal the truth
of us all
fortunately, blinking is an autonomic and reflexive process
millions of millisecond breaks
from all that concerns us
from all that calls us
so that they don’t break us
there’s glory after this
and hope to carry us there
seems so cliché when
we’ve become so accustomed to fear of the invisible and distance between us and those who should be the closest
the energy required to decipher lies and discern spirits is much more than i anticipated — how about you?
failed attempts to mend broken connections like dropped calls in dead spots on country roads that remind me of Saturday morning rides with my great-gram and great-aunt that i unfortunately dreaded at the time
i miss them both now — and i wish i had known back then just how much i would eventually be willing to give for just one more ride today
just one more
and watch the barns and tobacco fields swoosh by my window
hear them laugh again as we headed to pick strawberries in hot sunlight that bathed me —
at least i have the memories
movies aren’t supposed to be predictable.
it’s the little shocks and surprises that make blinking seem disrespectful and the expensive popcorn prices more reasonable.
it seems like an antiquated practice now that planet earth got sick and couldn’t come out to play for a year—but, i miss the movies.
arriving early, alone, hopefully in a seat next to no one, waiting for the opening credits and ads to finish—listening for the director’s choice of opening music and the writer’s selection of initial dialogue—excited to be thrusted into another world that will make me forget about mine for an hour and fifty-four minutes.
interestingly enough, i think we became the movies in the March of 101 score anno domini.
we became the star-studded cast and the nervously anxious onlookers simultaneously.
we watched ourselves maneuver through a plot summary filled with hero’s and heroine’s journeys, suspense, climaxes and cliffhangers designed for the most skilled thespians—and we never auditioned.
not a single curtain call.
and the location scout decided that the whole world would do just fine.
i suppose art grew weary of imitating life and vice versa—
they decided to become one.
i find myself hiding my work from everyone including me
even when i’m the only one to see it
it still feels like a crowd of unwanted strangers staring at my soul
an unnoticed, precious soul
overlooked and lodged in distant desert sands …
how lucky i am to have lost my say on roads to … unreachable glory
and to have found