It’s a life so short, but the days stretch

beyond what is comfortable.

Too tight or not tight enough, too warm

with no sense of warmth.

Much time is spent imagining

and then forgetting

because pretend things are painfully distant.

I’m as empty as hands cupping river water.

I am minutes in a sprawling galaxy.

The wall was perfect.

Green. A little weathered.

The brick nearby loved how

the fading sun gave way

to hanging lanterns swaying gently

on the Indian summer breeze.

I rifled as many memories as I could

and he filtered all but a few,

which wasn’t quite enough.

But it didn’t matter.

Words flowed like a familiar touch.

The empty room listened.

It was like a world unfolded

inside open arms. And it was warm,

a smile we could wear.

And then he laughed

and I watched his eyes watching mine.

We danced -across the table.

1)

An explosion rocked no one

but a few birds were left shaken;

she slipped out of her skin

and left it for him,

another piece gone but not missing.

2)

A ship somewhere is lost

with only soggy embers

falling in the eyes of fish

and he folds himself into a square

hoping to fit into what’s expected

because nobody wants the dreamer

to take the lead.

3)

A sliver of salvation

grabs hold of them by the wrist

but it’s a tenuous connection,

undone and redone

until the idea of being saved

is as redundant as a daytime moon.

Melting pavement

disappeared

as we flew.

The laughter

was lost

to trade winds

that carried us

beyond the known.

Those were days

of tangy warmth,

fresh and swollen

and full of mirth.

They seemed so cool

with their ragged clothing

artfully draped on anemic shoulders,

disaffected expressions even in the face of joy.

They may have been thinking of how good

it was back in the day, basking in sun

and boiling like lobsters – in a sexy way

and how with enough Aquanet and eyeliner,

they ruled a little part of the world

30 years ago.

Or they may have been wondering

what Camus meant by ‘I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world…’

They may have just been as blank as they looked.

I envied their lack of irony,

looking like refugees from a Pat Benatar video

while stuffing themselves

into their daughters’ pants, heralding the fall

of grace in a world that valued artifice over art.

I loathed them because now

I had that song stuck in my head,

complete with choreography.