The words are stuck.
This frustrating need to exhale, to deflate the balloons
folded in my
chest. Pinned together with this unexplained and mind-numbingly
selfish feeling of loneliness. Of first-world problems and this unrecognizable,
terrifying need to feel.
Soothing, generated warmth. Fluttering sensations in the space
between floating ribs and the blood or oxygen that pumps and promotes
the simplistic complications of living.
This ache for release. The creation of table-top sacrifice.
The real-life existence of existence outside of the body.
I can be anything. Tell me
what would be good enough
to influence, to persuade the pinning down of
form of permanence. Some unswaying promise
that the steadying force and conversation and bubble
of recognizable comfort, the warmth of space
filled between my fingers, will still
of the things we are
unaware of. Of each other. Of
the unexpected and gloriously surprising dips
and dives or reckless bends
of time and lack of
Until then, though, tell me
he was foolish. That he chose wrong. That I could
have been everything good for his life.
Tell me who I am will
at some point be what the right person bends and breaks
and sacrifices for.
That there are still dimly-lit wine-induced utterances
that will be acknowledged, held, kept.
That every person isn’t a lesson in refinement.
I want so badly to believe
like I did prior to knowing better.
Without second thoughts or expected outcomes.
Hurtling face-first and heart-forward over
cliff sides. Blindfolded. Like the first time you ever believed
in anything all.