Through Lines

We’re staring at lights in a passing night, staring but not seeing; believing but not feeling, wondering where the last three years went and wasn’t it just yesterday that I told you, I love you, and you scoffed and laughed and all I could muster was, “Just kidding”. Where did the moments go where we were building forts and fashioning boats from pillows and quilts, when our innocence was still just that because we couldn’t/wouldn’t/shouldn’t begin to fathom anything else that innocence could possibly be. I was still measuring seconds at water fountains; you we’re still wading into water with curiosity and wonder. I’m jumping ahead to moments in time and holding onto stars and rocks and not disposing of fingernails and not discarding old photographs (not anymore).

But you are only talking and typing and counting on fingers I can’t quite seem to remember, not because they are fading away into a memory I can’t quite recall, but maybe because I never held them enough. I was terrified of hands and, more specifically, terrified of yours - an infinite possibilities traced in the lines of your palms - of all the things that could be. And I was terrified of them. I was scared too often, scared of you. Scared of us. Scared of things I couldn’t understand.

And what if I listened to you that time in Joshua and what if I didn’t leave the park when you begged me to stay and what if I didn’t pick up a pen and instead just picked you up. Things would be different, but they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t be better.

So I’ll stick to making futures from shavings and ink, turning word to dream to hope to something else, something foreign; counting on fingers the minutes and minutes and minutes it will take for a realness to emerge from the lights and the fog.

  1. besteva02 reblogged this from ckboddy and added:
    Uh k weirdooo….
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    We’re staring at lights in a passing night, staring but not seeing; believing but not feeling, wondering where the last...
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