vignettes of me

he places a hand on my right shoulder, a gentle and warm hand. i am roused above my unaware, and automatically, this touch is engraved onto the recesses of my memory, etched deep like a graceful tattoo, to sail across my consciousness on silent spring mornings. the thoughts on his hand tell me he loves me. through the stones in his heart, the miles he's walked to return to his purest thoughts stretch into me. he is here, a love throbbing uncomprehending. savoring the tangy aftertastes of that instant, behind closed doors and mind wide awake, i know i have forgiven him.

i am still my own person, my thoughts, mine. the more i share, the more explanations are deemed necessary, and i find that the hole is not to be filled, it's a dizzying black vortex that exists within me, mesmerizing me. i take care to feed it, for without it i am not whole. it nurtures me in return with the reassurance that we'll never fall apart. and i am ready for whatever may come. time. like wet sand between our toes. until we lose balance and float out toward the depth of the sea.

i am not an artist, nor a writer. i don't claim the experience, discipline nor the disposition that i think is necessary to be one. but i can relate. a part of being an artist is learning to let go of that fear, whatever it may be. be it of falling, flying, or feeling. vulnerability sells. it gnaws at you and in the end settles like hapless leafs at autumn's end, melting into the crust of mother earth. it heats away excesses, the molten core, dimming the shades in your loved one's eyes. fortunately, life extends many the courtesy of a second chance, and in this way, my heart is set free. my soul is content.

the static in his head. smoke filled lungs. lights shining just somewhere out of reach. the floors spin and carry him into the arms of girls full of grace. soft as cotton. there is only the present, he's justified. he's real. struggle is lining his face, contouring it in confusion. he sits down on the floor, youth in one hand. he is tired, and the world soon closes onto the space beneath his ecstasy.

we all sit upon broken dreams, the sun descending so far into our veins. the more you learn how to appreciate something, or somebody, the less time there is for you to express it. to me, life is an acquired taste. not the question of living, but the question of living well. prof says that everything he needed to know he learned in kindergarten. i echo that. i live for my senses, my soul is well fed while my body suffers. like the useless knowledge that we accumulate, i am a slave to structure and fanfare but i am also a rule breaker. sometimes my subconscious floats through sleepy contentment, asserting its true self. i have only to sit limp and let it speak. i've retired entire pretenses, and things have taken their own course.