How Open Windows Remind Me

I abandoned the fashionable to learn to think of my own heart and soul. To explore empty alleys of my past littered with scraps of half-decayed paper. All these years constructing logic for the illogical. Severing myself from a wellspring to drift on well-aired currents of collective conscious.

I’m not home yet. Wandered half-circle and of course we go only forward. This never-ending loop. Maybe yet I’ll learn humility. Maybe yet I’ll learn to search my own pockets for treasure. Maybe this time, I won’t forget to take you with me. And open windows will remind me to sweep cobwebs from intercostal muscles.

When we knew each other

In high powered streetlights and low level bridges. The wandering nights of a conversation interspersed with hours of separation. You found in me an I in you. A you in I. We loved (but not too much) in all the right ways and ended on the other side of phrases. Choked with one too many quips or quivers against your ear. I followed and fell. You fell and followed. The opposites of accidents and accidental opposition. We spun inside the curl of current and drifted downstream. Until we were too far from where we started to know where we had come to rest.

The Gold Rush

I suspect that I fell in love with Charlie Chaplin today. I could blame the atmosphere. A world-class concert hall. The orchestra playing my emotions. Hundreds of children providing the laugh track, with all their delight in watching a man waddle and stumble from scene to scene.

But it was something more too. A blink, an innocent glance, a sudden grin. His face shifting from expression to expression. Charm and pathos and perfectly timed anything for a laugh. I’m a sucker for a man with crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

And pratfalls. They get me every time.

Been away a while

Not just here. Everywhere. I haven’t been anywhere. Which you claim is impossible, but these months disappear under something I can’t explain. Maybe too much snow, maybe darkness. But, in fact, I have been away. The unspoken always remains unheard, n’est-ce pas? And what is, what could possibly be, the sound of disconnection? A pop, a snap, a snarl, a slorp. The click of heels on linoleum tile. It is the sound of belief and disbelief in love, in forgiveness. The sound of rejecting a celebration of one’s value. I approach minor milestones with apprehension.

“There ain’t no dress rehearsal,” he says. My ankles twitch against atrophy. Events tumble into avalanche and all my fears are buried. Nothing waits. I can be within or without. These are the doors: one, two, three. We always want door number four.