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I can’t explain the threads that slip through my fingers. The worn clothing that rasps against aging skin. The different paths that form through shadows and profiles. The dancing past. I can’t taste the memories anymore. The time that slips and shudders in my arms isn’t needed. This entire hot-air balloon trip is rudderless and charming. There are no flights of stairs up here, only the vocabulary of silent birds.
Migration. I migrate from birth do death. Wherever I came from is not where I’m going. This lifetime is my path across, high up over the water. A loon heading for warmer climates. A pelican gliding across the jetstreams to another kingdom.
This sports bar of regret takes time to fully appreciate. I’m not the kind of guy that points and laughs. This life soaks into me, puffing me up with time and eroding the cells in my body. If aging doesn’t kill you, then it wears you down until death seems like a welcome thing. These gargoyles enjoy vacations in busses filled with children. Disasters need to stretch.
Each car crash, each shadowed x-ray, each late-night phone call that’s answered with dread, each letter that starts with ‘this is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write’, each night-time fear that grips for no reason. They all go into the laundry basket.
It’s your eyes. I’m doing laps in there. I’m tiny in the glow of them. There are no reasons, no timelines, no end in sight. This lighthouse is now welcoming boats instead of warning them and so far, so good. I wear a necklace of curfews, music from my teens on my feet, and a patchwork skin. A quilt made by widows in memory of the paths not taken.
We are friends, you and I. This person that is more of a direction than an intelligence. We are partners in crime-solving. Souls in the process of being sent. Paper airplanes enjoying a breeze from the summer. I can’t thank you enough.
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Migration. I migrate from birth do death. Wherever I came from is not where I’m going. This lifetime is my path across, high up over the water. A loon heading for warmer climates. A pelican gliding across the jetstreams to another kingdom.
This sports bar of regret takes time to fully appreciate. I’m not the kind of guy that points and laughs. This life soaks into me, puffing me up with time and eroding the cells in my body. If aging doesn’t kill you, then it wears you down until death seems like a welcome thing. These gargoyles enjoy vacations in busses filled with children. Disasters need to stretch.
Each car crash, each shadowed x-ray, each late-night phone call that’s answered with dread, each letter that starts with ‘this is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write’, each night-time fear that grips for no reason. They all go into the laundry basket.
It’s your eyes. I’m doing laps in there. I’m tiny in the glow of them. There are no reasons, no timelines, no end in sight. This lighthouse is now welcoming boats instead of warning them and so far, so good. I wear a necklace of curfews, music from my teens on my feet, and a patchwork skin. A quilt made by widows in memory of the paths not taken.
We are friends, you and I. This person that is more of a direction than an intelligence. We are partners in crime-solving. Souls in the process of being sent. Paper airplanes enjoying a breeze from the summer. I can’t thank you enough.
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