I’m watching a cracked screen,
Thinking, ‘would it be mean
if I just told you I was angry for no reason?’
To hand you my anger, like a coat worn through a storm —
An emotional passover to quell the locust storm of strange feelings, ones that don’t have names yet.
I wonder, am I passive, somewhat stuck in the passage, of odd moments of connection, that don’t quite ring true, anymore?
Where are you in this odd place, without a face, that doesn’t hold space but seems to have a mass, anyway?
A mass of things made of thought, things unspoken, things that leave me feeling wobbly — and a little bit broken…
Are you, too — you? to make a move, and tell me all the uncomfortable grit that nestles in your mind waiting for a kind soul to drag it out? With the wit you hold in such high regard?
I’m standing here alone, in a Sherlock Holmes sort of coat, chewing my lips and thinking ‘is this it?’
Where are our words, now?
Where does the authenticity go to rest, if we’ve embedded small lies and twisted-truths among the best stopping points of our carefully plotted cartography of sentences, cheeky comma’s (they stand for baited breath) and elevated grammer?
‘No rest for the good,’ I think.
You stammer. Stuttered. Stopped.
And not in a cute way.
It’s a tiresome thing to hold emotions alone.
I wish they were layers of clothes that we wrapped around us with choice, taking them off when we come home. When we visit. When we roam hot places, that smell like rust.
Trust me when I say, I’ve been thinking a lot about us,
but it’s bothersome, and tiresome, and bloated with words that I don’t trust.
If you don’t mind, I’ll just,
hang my coat up here,
and rewind, to a kinder time,
with truer words that play.
With truer words that rhyme.
