08 April 2009

And that your hand is on her every morning, and that you are testing her every minute...

Somewhere, a shadow of me is sitting against a tree, reading.

I want to believe that what I am writing will set your heart going.

The thought, I am not working hard enough. Each night,

The gathering of the day's minutes nip at my toes at the end of the bed. I tell them, tomorrow, tomorrow, little ones.

Tomorrow, I'll concentrate on my thought baskets, I'll pile little books into my hands and really hold them. Not just pass them over with a light touch, the tips of my fingers.

I am simply a fool. Listen, I haven't said anything to you yet because you're only a light in a corner, a blue globe, hanging there, waiting for a word, or the barometric pressure to drop.

Just keep silent. I know, lock myself away. I want to. I long to go for hours or days and say nothing, nothing to anyone but the carpet bugs.

Just a few hours ago, I saw a carpet bug pass by my desk.

You're working harder than me, I thought.

To be alone is to be in kindness.

Not that I don't mind the bugs.

Or the lamp throwing things around, scooting under my skirt.

But, when I miss hearing from you, or you, or you, I get a tinge in the side.

I walk from one place to another, chanting the syllables of your name.

And they taste sweeter by the minute,

like listening, taste as though I've said nothing but Yes! for a month

So, it doesn't matter, if you heard, if you saw the note I left on your car,

It just matters that I miss you again,

and home is still inside my chest.

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