creatingthefuture

He sits, Floating aimlessly in a cloud of self pity and remorse, one stubby hand pancaked on top of the other. I sit, Praying for hate-less words to come to me, to relieve this toxic man's waste of twenty years. None do. I get up from his black table, Turn to the door, Find the light for the stairs, and descend.

The erratic sway of the train accompanied by the devastatingly long silence tries to fill the cracks of the explanation I do not give. "Are you doing okay?" He asks, looking up from his feet and at me for the first time since we began talking about it. I think about what I could say if it weren't him; How confusing it is to choose to walk away from someone who did no wrong, whose spontaneity kept me on my feet, whose 'just be' approach to life both irritated and amazed me. How hard it was cling to the hope that my actions were reasonable and just. How unbelievably alone I felt. I turn away from the window and meet his eyes. Those same eyes

He touches my face when I drive - Strokes my cheekbones and the cartilage tubes of my right ear, and looks at me, the street lights bouncing off of his warm stare He holds my hand, and there's enough love in that knot of fingers that I forget to think about anything but the easy weightlessness that has overcome me. So I'm smiling, and driving, and feeling and there is a silence which he chooses not to pluck from the air, a lack of action with understated importance. And in that silence, I find a million new moments pregnant with possibility, giftwrapped in the beautiful colors of a future, comfortable, safe, yet fier

the soft skin of a dream withers with the day time, as always I find myself homeless come morning, dreaming of all, except those who dream of me.

I watch the spruce shake its giant arms in the wind, each green feather floating all directions, each finger, free in the cold winter wind. But in this fleeting thought, I secretly worry for all the small souls whose toes do not have a chance to fully grasp each branch before the inevitable mighty shivers The moment of unintentional flight, as each bieng loses its foothold and plumets - invisible to onlookers, lost in the air. floating first down, then upwards forever.

Dancing hands are by definition Italian, and lately are all I can manage to remember from our conversations, watching them agitated and quick out of the corner of my eye, a little rusting spear twisting in my stomach with each sporadic flutter.

Back against the wall, only this time it's literal. Linoleum tiles, dirty with the white dust left behind by harsh chemical cleaners. I'm shivering but I am not even sure if I am cold. I talk constantly, but only occasionally do I know what I'm saying. Only every now and then do I part the fog clouding my mind to untwist the knots inside my throat, inside my stomach, and say something real. And even those subtle moments of clarity, few and far between, lessen the weight of the week. But, of course nothing lasts, and with one string of words, one exhale of words, I am back to point A, back against the wall.