Fingerprints
29 May 2011 21:08![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesRemember the time we found that war? The straight-razor promise hiding in the ice cream dessert of your words? Remember the regret on your shoe that wouldn’t come off? The tie-drawer secret that turned every wall into a room for whispering? The up and out from your lungs that could never be? Remember not having the ability to talk without making a small cut?
As this galaxy swirls down the drain and the big bang hiding in your eyelashes threatens to become reality, a redefinition is taking place behind the scenes of the sitcom I star in. Lying on my back and pretending to be a helicopter is forcing me to admit that I may be more ice cream truck than tank, more 1971 station wagon than 1985 Lamborghini Countach. I am the brown inseam on your second-hand pants.
The heavier of heart you are, the harder it is to climb. This ladder needs people with the ability to shed. To dive through. To exist now and to exist now. To become a traveling knot of redefinition down the stitch point heartbeat. We are the whooshing of blood through valves and not much else. And some of us like chocolate cake.
There is a window of opportunity that I’m smashing through like a stuntman before CG in movies. I’m a fireplace hungry for trees. A clay potter might leave fingerprints in his work. I’ve done so much more as did God and/or physics did before me.
This rose of judo swelling beside me is shadow boxing through sonograms and strawberry desserts on the train from a world barely big enough to hold her to another one barely ready for her. My hands might hold her but my heart will never able to.
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As this galaxy swirls down the drain and the big bang hiding in your eyelashes threatens to become reality, a redefinition is taking place behind the scenes of the sitcom I star in. Lying on my back and pretending to be a helicopter is forcing me to admit that I may be more ice cream truck than tank, more 1971 station wagon than 1985 Lamborghini Countach. I am the brown inseam on your second-hand pants.
The heavier of heart you are, the harder it is to climb. This ladder needs people with the ability to shed. To dive through. To exist now and to exist now. To become a traveling knot of redefinition down the stitch point heartbeat. We are the whooshing of blood through valves and not much else. And some of us like chocolate cake.
There is a window of opportunity that I’m smashing through like a stuntman before CG in movies. I’m a fireplace hungry for trees. A clay potter might leave fingerprints in his work. I’ve done so much more as did God and/or physics did before me.
This rose of judo swelling beside me is shadow boxing through sonograms and strawberry desserts on the train from a world barely big enough to hold her to another one barely ready for her. My hands might hold her but my heart will never able to.
tags