This Too Shall Pass
We wash our reflections, again and again, recalling only briefly what it feels like to recognize completely. We stare. We try to fill in the missing pieces. We rearrange. Alter. White out the places where our faces gave a little too much away. And then we snap back. .
We mail letters to all of the train-riders and train-writers - takers of notes and of chances and sometimes of wallets. And you may forget me long before I leave. But my shoes are still filling with all the letters I left out.
To home wherever that is, is what I’ll tell the cab drivers and on the days when it’s not the most gray, they’ll know. And I will unlock the front door and greet the pleasant ache with open arms and a weary smile. This is the consistency of comfort—I think. I hang my hat and my coat and leave my shoes in the foyer so as not to trek too much universe onto the carpets.
And this is what my footprints look like lately: like scars from bicycle accidents but really from Daddy letting go of the back even though I begged him not to. And like silly little sorry’s all tied together in a knot of necklace chains. Like daisy’s in the summer. Like when nausea is all too normal and never not near by, perpetually waiting for the proper points of ambush. Like not knowing because that’s worse than curling up into the too small spaces that the truth ever so kindly cleared away. Or like knowing too much for my ferris wheel brain to collect and file away. Knowing too much to stay in this snow globe of kaleidoscope conversations - nothing but the air and the atmosphere trying to come together, trying to rob me of the same gravity that promised to hold me a long time ago.
And lately I am less and less a writer and more and more a basket case.
Lately I am more brackets than side notes. I am breathing out reservations for extra sentiments, but without creating the thoughts meant to fill them. Lately I am a punctuation error, underlined in studious frowns and piano music. Peppered with college students who pretend that no sleep is a bad thing - everyone knows you are just creating space to collect memories for when your expectations turn out to be wrong. Storing them for later.