Fellow blind abiders: we’ve let facts
and figures sink in. Stained our skin
with trivialities for
a worn-out common dream. A future
wine and dine. Where we won’t ask
questions, but sing. Of firm red roofs above
our heads that were once
desert sand. In days when we were
young and deigned to dream. When we
loved this life—before we lived it. We’ll tuck
the cost of stability beneath our store-bought,
white linen sheets. Lift our translucent glasses
to the fine professions we despise.
To the chirping of our tired tongues,
wordless dialogue to soothe
our woes. We’ll forget the lives
we could have led. With
store-born smiles, unlike those
that lingered in our souls. Once. In days
when passion was a pleasure worth pursuing.
Now we will drown in the spotlight
from a meaningless existence:
Longing for something to sing about.
“Must you always do that?” Sarah wrinkled up her nose in disgust.
“Always do what?” I said, glancing up from the New York Times. I then realized I had neglected the coffee and soggy cheerios before me. Perhaps I had been somewhat disengaged.
Sarah shook her head. “You’ve been so absorbed in your work lately. We haven’t had a real conversation this week. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been trying to catch up,” I responded. My eyes danced around the room and stopped as I noticed the black and white kitchen tiles that we had always planned to replace.
“You’ve hardly been home this week,” she complained, “and you’ve done nothing around the house. Why is that I am the only who does things around here?” She shook her head. “I swear, Jack, sometimes you’re impossible.”
I nodded to show her that I understood, and I did. “You’re right. I haven’t been there lately.”
“You haven’t,” Sarah agreed, “and I’m sick and tired of it.”
“Perhaps disharmony is what keeps us afloat,” I suggested with a smirk. “We’re so used to having something to argue about.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sarah responded, snatching an empty blue plate from off the table to place it in the sink.
And she was right. But then she laughed that familiar laugh, which was soft and light and reminded me of the wind chimes we placed outside the front door of our mountain abode. She wouldn’t admit it, and it was probably wrong of me to say this, but that laugh of hers was how I knew I had swayed her.
(Still iffy about a few lines, but here’s another poem. It’s not nearly as dark as it sounds…haha.)
Numbing weights upon my soles,
Steady me on this downward ship,
But my eyes dance across the sea,
To swindle yours in sadist crime.
Your brittle bones taunting me.
To taste the lips of poison.
Which animate with sin.
Sever these bloodless veins;
Feed the fire beneath my skin.
If only I could end a conversation without a bitter taste upon my tongue, without this uneasy feeling that a friend is a friend solely due to circumstance, that I have to right some wrong I’ve impinged upon another, that I have to make up for something, rather, everything, though I long so much to be close to another as the entirety of my existence is held at arm’s length, as I regroup in solitude and enjoy it dangerously so, stealing the early morning for myself to breathe easy for a while.
Unraveled and undone,
your skin and mine. The
wanting. Of young, transient
fools. Drink in days
with our lips. In that cabin.
Eyes closed, but awake.
Swallow this tangent to shore.
Your hair and mine. The hunger.
Your mouth, warm. Amber
fire, on the inside. We were frozen.
Ice in that cabin. Unpretending.
We were winter. With warm coffee as we woke.
Electric. Veins that could set fire. On that
frozen morning. Sky painted black in its own disillusionment.
Our almost smiles. Wordless. We were each other’s own when
I wore your skin. In that cabin. That cold winter
morning, you stole me. Your skin and mine. In those sheets.
The wanting. The hunger. In that cabin. I loved you.
The torment. The hours. The desperation. Your mouth, warm.
I love you.
The home I found.
You, in that cabin. The wanting. The waiting. Your winter coat.
We were much too young to mend.
On those steps. The suffering—the nape of your neck—The hunger.
The ennui. The drowning.
Smaller, upper back.
For the sake of stability,
I’ve let facts and figures sink in.
Staining my skin with trivialities.
For a worn-out common dream.
For a mid-life wine and dine.
Vapid talks with respectable robots.
Old colleagues of mine.
Proud owners of cookie-cutter houses.
With fine professions to discuss.
And lives void of significance.
As they converse in insipid tongue.
Drowning in the spotlight.
From a passionless existence.
Longing for something to sing about.
*Might add to this
Glancing outside the open window of Henry’s dilapidated car, Ally focused her attention on one particular evergreen in the distance. The summer sun had doused it with a soft, comforting glow, and comfort she sought. As a light drizzle of rain dampened her outstretched hand, she quickly shut the window but continued to sit there, transfixed.
“Ally?” Henry called out gently, mildly perplexed. Though she had heard his words, they had not resounded because at that moment in time, her gaze was focused elsewhere. “Are you all right?” He asked, concerned.
“Of course,” Ally reassured him with a short nod and a small smile, but he raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Then she proceeded to shift to the right, leaning her body against the car door.
“Where do we go from here?” Ally asked breathlessly and then turned to Henry to catch his eye as she narrowed hers slightly, almost hinting at suspicion. A destination had not been set, but Ally felt as if they were nearing it. In other words, she knew Henry well and suspected another hour or so would pass before he’d grow weary.
Smiling gently, Henry shook his head. “Let me ask you something, Ally.” Abruptly, he slowed down the pace at which he was driving and swung his head around to face her. “Why do you always have to know?” He teased her with his playfully accusatory glare.
Ally sighed sharply, her impatience apparent as she turned the page of the novel in her hands that she had not yet begun to read, though she had glanced over the words time and time again. As recent college graduates, they were now on the run, though from nothing in particular and towards nothing in particular. Neither of them possessed a plan or perhaps their plan itself was to live without one. In their eyes, one possesses more courage when he or she lives freely.
“Where do we go from here?” Ally repeated- demanded, rather- for this time, the words had escaped differently than she had intended, in the harshest of tones. For a moment, she almost wished she could rewind. Her words had not been fair.
Though Henry had taken note of her tone, it clearly had not fazed him because he loved that girl, and so he chuckled in response. She was only learning to let go. “Where you always wanted,” he replied simply, grinning ever so slightly as he glanced over at her and noticed a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Onward.”