a spreading of wings, a bating of breath, a sense of something coming

Allowing an Easement

I had come into my own the day you arrived and said a matter of words that caught me up. Tripped, snagged, trapped. Your eyes were galaxies and I fell heart-first into them. Self-preseveration said pull away. The rest of me said: no way.

Compelling as the event horizon of a black hole. I had no fight to pull my hands, arms, tongue back. You could have pushed me through the seal of universes. I’d have gone with you.

Mistakenly, I thought it was mutual — this insanity.

I was wrong.

I went in retrograde after that discovery. A pale comparison of a human heart with a leaking valve. Not pumping but bleeding out. Gasping for air and I got mouthfuls of carbon dioxide. Straight from your lungs. I didn’t think I could survive on that alone. But it was easy to pretend for a while. Maybe, it was just fun.

I didn’t think too hard. Only tumbled down a long slide that was always going to end in a lonesome night.

That day you left, the sunset was beautiful but the air turned cold around us. And I found myself mirrored a hundred-fold. Different motions, but the same dance. Different keys, but the same song.

So we have the same steps, but can’t follow the route. So we know the words but can’t sing along together. Traveling hearts bound in different directions. Shifting sands blowing every which way but together.

The life you got to live only put into sharp relief the one I hadn’t. Not opposites, but reverse impressions of one another. To be myself, I had to claw my way out. To be yourself, you only had to open your mouth.

I wish I knew what an easy life looked like sometimes. And then I remember the me I was when I did, and I think — no thanks.

This current of my personality only flows with any strength because of the rocks I’ve worn down out of my way. I’d rather be right where I am with the losses I’ve had and the hits I’ve withstood than give up one single scrap of understanding I have.

Ignorance is bliss so long as you don’t want to really live.

I’d rather know the fire is hot because I’ve put my hand on it. Again and again. Maybe that’s why I love these scars. They remind me of the things I’ve learned. A map of all the places I’ve been.

You, on my hip and chest and arm — are another one.

So, you’ve gone. And now the flame has blown out and I am in waiting for another wick. Another spark. Another wandering heart.

It’ll come, crash into my crust and we’ll make brief planetary love. I have no doubts. Only, I need patience to wait this out.