Floorboards

Floorboards creak under my bare feet

Inviting the past to creep up through

The cracks and crevices

Running like veins through

tarnished oak, splintered

with stories of pitter and patter

Touching the soles of soul after soul

Some desperate for the foundation

To open wide and swallow them whole

 

Long panels meet cornered molding

For the first time

It would seem

Unclear as to who provides the adhesive

Holding together

What can only be assumed to be

Destiny,

Longitude and latitude colliding

To form a perfect enclosure.

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Linger

I want to want what I have in my hands. Or the possibility – which is where I have always gotten lost. This is the sharp left turn that leads me to nowhere, for all things are at their best before they happen into existence.

How beautiful our expectations look in the dark. How shameful we feel when they emerge in the light of actuality. I prefer to remain in an in-between  world, one of shadows, a grayness. A passage where possibility lives in limbo, the sliver of space in the middle of what is and what could have been. I’ll choose not to walk through, lingering as the patterns in my eyes dance in the doorway.

We, the lonely

We are many. Yet we are not together. And it feels like this vastly expanding gap is growing between those of us being crushed by the constant, ever-consuming sense of existing completely separate from anyone. Especially the ones who love us and who we love back. Craving more, chasing less. Growing older, letting the presence of the present define our circumstances. To dream beyond the moment is to wish for something we cannot grasp in our palms, tiny grains of powder soft sand. Holding on tight to the here and the now and the this. So fearful, so apprehensive, so desperately distant from the will be, maybe, someday.

We, the lonely. We are here.

We shift back and forth but never forward. We sway from the branch of uncertainty, unable to untether the rope we have been tied up with for so long. So we anchor our thoughts and our feelings, our seemingly unattainable hopes, to the tangible idea of stability. The here, the now, the this. We are a reminder of our own existence. Soon to be defining moments of our histories but never parts of anyone else’s. This, is the lonely. Here, are the lonely. Now, the lonely swing; to and from what is known and what cannot be –

Conduits

Words are rolling off the tip
of my mind
Barreling through crowded corridors

Safety seems to hold fast
in tunnels
leading to notions
Lacking foundational support

Maps that make themselves known,
Keys and compasses, composed
of symbols
Possessing elusive context

Save for Emergency exits
Passageways that hide behind
the fog
Drifting from view

Burrowed beneath layers of
winding avenues

The crash is quiet.