Welcome to Stop-Time

I feel fragile of late. A series of accidents has left my hands scarred, and unsure. A slipped box cutter when opening a package and my left is shocked into agony. I drink five glasses of water and do not throw up, though I want to. There is no one to take care of it but  me. Wash, antiseptic, a large band aid, ice. I feel oddly proud and sad for looking after it. I wish there was someone to kiss my temple and tell me it will be alright, But i live alone. Before long, an unwise attempt to pick up my cat one-handed leaves scratches on my right. Shallow, they pull at my skin and ache. The same night I use a new knife and slice my left, lightly. My fingerprint is marred by a horizontal line of hurt - I have used up all my band aids by now and can only find a tissue. Am I falling apart, bit by piece? These are small. But my box-cutter-hand still aches, and I know I have damaged the nerves. My friend tells me it will take a year to heal - a year? I want to laugh - What is a year? I cannot even see six months into the future when the vaccine will be available to the general public. The future is a far-off place I want to visit but the road is so, so long and my hands hurt.

Don’t stare at the page. If you dare steal one look, it will all disappear and prove to be a dream. So don’t look up, just like Don’t Look Down, or you’ll fall, You’ll realize that there are no words left, that you’ve run out because really, You’re just not a very interesting sort of person. Never made anything useful, or said anything memorable, Or done something that no one else in the entire world could do Like it was never done before. You’re left with an empty, gnawing sensation. It whispers that you’re alone. That you’re one of the lonely, not one of the loved. Up before dawn only because you haven’t yet gone to bed. Is there a point to this stop-time? This dull life, This endless waiting around for someone to grab your hand, To take you on an adventure so you’ll finally have something to say? Not everyone has a story. Then again, Maybe you’ve done something special. Maybe, someone thinks you’re special. I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have anything to say at all, except that I do, Except that everyone does, All of us, the people up before dawn when no one else is. We just want to be heard: A cry in the dark, a sigh in the void. Its not like there’s anyone around to hear it. We’re just composing sonnets to ourselves, Spilling our soul all over our keyboards, Wailing to an empty room. So maybe I’m just like you. Maybe I’m not. I think we all want to be noticed. For someone to stop, and look at us from across the room and say “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You have been missed. And in your absence, everything was a little hushed. Not as loud. I felt cold on one side because that’s where you usually stand. A sudden rush of panic filled me when I realized I couldn’t see you, Where did you go? What if my phone number washes off of your hand in the rain and you never call? If I never see you again, what will become of me then? What will I do without your voice? Whispering softly in my ear because you think it’s sexy (so do I). They’re groundless fears. You’re here, you’re mine, And my phone number was never in danger of washing off in the rain. We walk out together, side-by-side. The rest of the revelers we leave to their fun. You’re holding my hand, our fingers tightly entwined. And it’s soft and warm, Not too sweaty and not too tight. It feels like a hug, like a caress, like the beginning of summer. I want to wrap myself up in you. Surround my senses with your presence And erase the barriers between us. But like all good nights, this one has to end. You turn to me and say “Good night, I love you, and I’ll see you in the morning.” And then I wake up.

Destiny by itself is too impersonal. I am my own person before I am yours, And even if I’m not, I am trying to be. You say, ‘love at first sight’. Struck blind by beauty, our hands touched and you felt sparks. But relying on destiny, for a future of us? Hopeless. Let me know your mind and the way your hair looks in the early morning, Untamed bed head that frightens the cat. Make me a perfect cup of coffee-or tell me that you can’t cook at all, though you try. Let me share my blinding agony with you and allow me to take yours upon myself. Tell me I’m worth it not because you felt a connection when our gazes first locked, Sliding into place like a newly-minted key into a well-oiled tumbler. But because of how we grew together. How we lived, together. When we cried at a sad movie only one of us wanted to see. Got chased by an ornery peacock at the zoo and took pictures to commemorate First, third, fifth dates. Celebrated an anniversary and thought, You are the only person I want to be with in this moment. Speak to me of the destiny of imperfection, of frustration, Of working late and working out compromises To being whole and adding something to the finished piece, Or to being broken but finding something worthwhile there anyway. Sing about the love that love songs are made of and laugh at the absurdity. Remember when we met and you thought ‘destiny’, How I laughed in your face and walked away. Of meeting again, with stars in your eyes you buried under your nails, Hiding the shine until you knew me. And when you unearthed the sparkle months later You found not fairy dust but tempered steel, Forged in the crucible of knowing to be unbreakable. My dearest one, do not speak to me of destiny. I did not fall in love with you as if falling from a cliff, We planted our seeds side-by-side, To twine up together into something indescribable, something unique. Ours. I did not fall in love with you at first sight. For with the glamour of first meetings proven false, We learned to nourish and to grow and to see.   Our tree now seems lofty enough to scratch the clouds, Its leaves glinting grey in the early dawn light. Metal peeks through the thin membrane in place of chlorophyll, And it becomes clear at last that we grew our destiny together. Isn’t it beautiful?