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
What can only be assumed to be
Longitude and latitude colliding
To form a perfect enclosure.
I will paint you with colors
you weren’t able to see yourself in.
For every chance you will never take,
I will leap with your bravery.
The center of your world
is unknown to me –
But I will navigate through the labyrinth
you built around your heart,
for as long as it takes.
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.
there’s just about nothing
about nothing, just about
or the uncompromising pull
of needing this to be anything
but nothing, everything but
I’ll take a walk instead
backwards, not to trip on
your shoelaces. They’re always
I’ll be moving too quickly away
to help you fasten loose ends.
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 –