When hope is more like hunger pangs

Perhaps there is no start to this conversation. Roll the dial across every frequency from right to left and back again. The hiss and buzz of amplitude modulation with occasional focus on something intelligible. Four bars from an old song. The answer to an unknown question . An opinion offered to a midnight audience of five. Phonemes scattered on the speaker dancing secret messages into the passenger seat.

If, perhaps, there were more to say tonight, I would find myself curled around the steering wheel, resting on your wrist. And all the other secret places you never thought to lie about.

Releasing

In the many days of silence, perfect words flit like restless thoughts through axons and dendrites. Like elusive spices in a creamy sauce and silk fluttering against the ankle in an inexplicable draft. Shades of black on black on blue in a moonlit night. Magpie feathers gliding on a winter breeze.

We fight against the gravity of small bodies. And leave the corners blank.

To be in the world

My cherished,??? ????? ???????????

I left you 100 days ago today. Walked out over the grass and found myself spectacularly at the bottom of a fountain collecting wishes. But not for long. In the 100 days since then, I have experienced several hundred humans. Quite possibly into the thousands, but you see, I lost count. I began by handing out pennies, and when the pennies ran out, I wandered to the edge of a river to gather pebbles. I smiled at people and said hello, good day, take care. More than they did to me. It was mostly glorious. I could see eyes full of suspicion even though they wanted to trust. They wanted to find me in their family of hello, good day, take care. But the pebbles ran out too. And now, 100 days later, I am coming home to you. I think. If I can find the soles of my feet above the first shake of fallen leaves. They will lead me to you with the rustle of fading heartbeats.

Untold secrets

We would believe. Today and yesterday and next week and last year and ten years down the road. That our secrets remain stitched to the undersides of our finest coats. That our shirts betray no faded ink and our pristine gloves absorb no nervous sweat. We would believe the creases in our trousers maintain stiff lines and hang without crumpled knees. But your beating heart will pucker your left breast pocket, and my lungs will burst buttons that clatter over the tabletop. This conversation will tumble like a pile of dirty socks we lost and left unfolded.