Yearning is a Hazardous Occupation

M- 

I pressed my hand against a windowpane last night.

It was cold, and condensation clung to my palm.

When I removed my hand, a print was left behind.

It lasted for a moment, then faded back into fog.

I breathed in and thought of: 

paper cuts and macaroni necklaces and ink stains.

 I breathed out and thought of:

you.

-L 

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L-

I wrote your name on the inside of the tongue of my sneaker.

I used a blue gel pen and the ink flowed—

as if the shoe’s tongue was a real one, thirsty, lapping up your name.

What if you could drink someone’s name—

absorb it into your skin?

If you rearranged the letters, would it taste different?

I think your name would taste of laugh lines, paprika, and delighted discontent.

-M

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There are worse places to be that Minnesota, 

she thinks. 

She has a bed that’s crooked, but 

not crooked enough to replace;  

a slightly wilted flower, but 

not wilted enough to die; 

a partially damaging love life, but 

not enough to leave her damaged.  

Everything is almost-but-not-quite. 

And isn’t that nice, 

isn’t that comfortable, 

she thinks. 

But- 

she itches. 

Only a little. 

Not enough (of course) to spark something, 

but enough to consume thought. 

It’s an itch, 

she figures out one day, 

for: 

too-full 

too-much 

too-far. 

And yes, she wants this. 

But she is comfortable in Minnesota, 

in her small town with her: 

slightly-crooked bed and 

almost-wilted flower and 

partially-damaged love life. 

Comfortable- 

except for that itch. 

I’m tired of waltzing.

Waltzing is known, waltzing is safe.  

(one-two-three, one-two-three)

I want to tango

or salsa or rumba or jive or-

something.

Something that is not a waltz.

Because this dance is worn out.

Our path across the dance floor has been repeated so often,

our tracks have been ingrained in the hardwood panels

 beneath our feet,

leaving no option but to continue in the same pervasive pattern

(as always)

for fear that if we don’t,

we’ll trip over the edges of our familiar path

and fall harder than if we’d stayed inside what we knew.

But,

I can’t.

Not anymore.

Eventually, our tracks will get so deep

that we’ll fall through the floor.

Maybe, that’s what should happen.

Then we’d be free.

Broken, yes;  

but aren’t we already? 

My hands are numb.

I’m not cold, yet-

my hands are numb

and heavy

cut from marble,  

as if some statues hands became tired of lifelessness

and snuck onto my arms

when I wasn’t looking.

But am I better than a statue, really?

I go through the quotidian motions, yes,

but it’s all repetitive

so much so that it’s almost like standing still, after a while;

almost as bad as that statue.

Or, maybe:

no delinquent hands stole mine’s rightful place after all.

Maybe I’m just slowly turning into one.

(a statue, I mean)

Maybe it’s starting in my fingertips and spreading through me

up to my heart

transforming it into cold rock.

Well, that’s a pointless endeavor,

as my heart is already as opaque as one.

(a rock, I mean)

So, can a frozen thing become even more so?

Or, maybe:

it is my heart causing the trouble in the first place

maybe it has already adopted statue-like behavior,

and my hands are just following suit.

Either way, will I soon be nothing but

static and still? 

I was warned away from you

just as you were warned away from me

and yet,

here we are  

intertwining our complexities

with the simple twist of our pinkies

together

There’s you and me,

there is

And you

You smell of cinnamon and coffee and freshly washed sheets and I

I think I smell of you

There are things untold

that sit on your heart

I see them

Not clearly, no

but- an outline, a faint visage

I squint sometimes, try to make out what it is

what resides there

But I undoubtedly fail

They’re there, though,

pulling your puppet strings

I wonder

if you ever long for freedom

if you ever wish to feel the lightness of dislodging those

things untold

an open book might be vulnerable to misuse, poor treatment,

but,

those books that easily reveal their meanings 

are the ones that tumble off of shelves into eager, ink-stained hands

their pages are worn, yes, but-

isn’t it better to be worn out from affection

then to lie frigid, and unopened,

cold and

flawless?

I want to run

but I am slow

And yet,

I want to run

physically and metaphorically

I want to run from and towards

from here

towards there

I want to run from

I want to run from whispers and cold Thursday mornings

where breath is puffs of fog

and hands are pricked with needles

I want to run from comfortable chairs

and cracked pavement

and spearmint gum

and the familiar way my name is said

and Hello

and

Nice to see you and

How was your day

I want to run towards

I want to run towards something

I want to run towards

anonymity

towards

What’s your name

and

What do you want to be

towards

uncomfortable

undecided

unknown

I want to run but I am here

I want to run but 

I am still

I want to run

but

I am still here

I am neither a mover

nor a shaker

(O’Shaughnessy’s terms)

nor am I a catalyst

of anything,

really

I am not the missing puzzle piece

a revolutionary

or the golden thread 

(my apologies to Dickens)

Rather,

I am a watcher

static

too dense to float, I sink

A rock at the bottom of the sea watching the fish build their lives

with flicks of their fins

grace in living motion

And the scene changes

the seasons

the surroundings

the people

everything once again becoming unexplored territory

a cycle, but not an overly repetitive one

for it’s different every time

everything,

except me

the watcher

I’m who I once and always was

A weathered relic, a forgotten reminder

A paralyzed,

captivated audience

because, as we all know,

All the world’s a stage

(Thank you, Shakespeare)

I am the one who watches others create

build worlds out of words

destroy and love and hope and want and give and give in and cry (out and to and for and because) and

be

It’s sad, is what it is,

being glued to obscurity

A  constant

who wishes to be a variable

But

I am not without want

I am not content at rest

I am not resigned to never leaving an indelible mark

For,

I am not a mover

nor a shaker

But I am a dreamer of dreams

                I

spin lies

like

a

        spider

spins her web

intrinsically

instinctively

it’s not a compulsion

really

but not something

I                

could

stop

It’s more like the need to

breathe

I exhale 

out  

not what’s real

not the

truth

if

I even know what that

is

but what

I  

want 

wanted  

to be

instead of

what is

but

I inhale

what is

and let it stew

inside

bubbling and broiling and churning and fighting

until I force

it

into submission

And then once again

I am the spider

weaving

whimsical

tenuous

connections

here

and there

Until it

hurts

Soon the web will become a wall

the foundation set solidly

at my feet

and rising up

too

high

to where I can no longer see

due to the

blinding

 light of the

sun

too bright

too

much

and I won’t be able to look through it

at   

the

world

and the world won’t be able to look back

so

they’ll just see

the pattern I’ve strung together

with

lies

purposefully

unknowingly

Which?

Who can tell

I

might have the answer

a

reason

But everything is ambiguous,

I’ve learned

Or is that just another

                                Lie