Composing my Words

A hue between blue and yellow. Between trunk and branch. Between space and space and space. The blades of grass rustle as I step into the green. Life drenched in the breeze as dragonflies dart around. The sun is bursting above, shimmering rays making leaves radiate. I lift my arm above. My hand now a ghostly golden glow. The warmth grazing across my skin. To be sun kissed. To be here. To be here.

Maybe none of this will matter in the blink of the universe. At least though you're here you can try to have some joy with the sorrow. It’s already enough to know one day you’ll die. Why not love in the face of it? Try to love. Fail to love. Love all the same. I write this knowing I’ll run from whatever that concept is. So much easier to place the letters down on an empty space than see it in the face of someone I want to love me.  

It’s okay to restart. I already did today. A blank space can return to a blank space if you fill it up with something debatable. No one needs to know it happened even though we all do it over and over. We are constantly caught in these transformations. The mistakes that hurt us and sometimes others. Oh, yes definitely others. You can return to the blank space though. You can retry. That’s the art of living. The art of writing. Have you tried to write? I pretend I know how. You have to start somewhere. Everyone has to start somewhere. If it doesn't work out, you return to nothing.

It’s spring.

It’s spring.

I can’t stop thinking about you. It makes me wish I could go looking for you as if you were lost here and not countries away. I’m not divine waiting to split the sea or walk on it. I’m just a man waiting at the window. Waiting.

Maybe one day will meet at the garden.

I want to matter like one of the trees. They frame the park in this wide opening around the hill. Each tree gives a slight sway upon the breeze. I stand at the highest elevation, my toes anchored as I bring my branches above. I can feel the breeze too. We don’t have to be alone. We are part of something greater.

I admit, I have a little hope.

I tell them not to worry, forget the space I take. I dig and dig. I know I can grow something worth loving.

A bloom.

The craving of flesh and pleasure drive home a thirst inside me so strong it leaves me hollow. I imagine finding a man’s eyes who could fill me up the same way you do a pitcher. The flowers are dying outside and I resent how badly I wish a man could say my name and remind me why I’m alive.

but it must have something to do with you.

Everyone is eventually forgotten  to be the space between words. A forgotten object. A ghostly post left on the net. A body eroding away until something new can take a seat.  To fear a life yet lived. To chase the idea of a life. I just want to be here because I am here. I’m writing this and that’s all this has to be.

Thinking about him.

I think about kissing you all the time. You probably have a partner now. I presented myself with the Schrodinger's cat of marriage. I don’t want to open that box, I want to know less about you, be in the one memory where we kissed and that was it. We had our names and these feelings. We made it, at least to the bedroom where we touched until we lost warmth. The only thing left to burn were the things we always wanted to say but didn’t.

The lines in my palms  are canyons collecting water.  The slick fingers pressing between stones looking for the perfect one. The soft curves melt around my fingers. The daggers flat with layers of color. Pebbles that fit in between the spaces. When does a rock become a boulder? When does a pebble become sand? I put them down gently as if each one was a human heart. The mud dispersing itself in the tide as it claims the beach like a sleeve.  Everything comes and goes. So do I.