the shed tears for the past is my problem never fixed
the faucet that can never be shut off,
the river that continues to run away.
and i run away and back again,
thus completing the circle, never ended
never stopped.
away is not far
about 180 degrees from the starting point
a pendulum swinging or
a sun's course from a singular perspective.
and i am but a singular life.
and today i talked about a balcony as if it was a tomb,
and death could enlace me
like a silk slip
smooth
soft
and death has a feeling
one of mystery, or glory
to see what else is out there
but i know there is nothing.
just a straight jacket,
just a coffin,
just a black hole,
just a desk.
but kittens and pup pups and snakes will all fall in love,
and one day i will ask the cutest coyote pup pup what his lovers name is,
and he will tell me, and i will smile,
but really deep down inside where that hole is,
that part of me will cry,
and rip its self into tiny little pieces so that no one whole thing could fill it,
only a bunch of little things,
like a coat hanger, a bottle of tequila, a toddler shoe, a piece of a car, a large vase with 6 or 7 long skinny stemmed flowers, a really nice pen, the nose of a stuffed animal, a bowl of cereal, a very interesting bouncy ball, and insignificant pair of earrings, a bike ride, a warm embrace, a secret that i never tell, a pet owl or even the simple act of some one pressing against my neck and fiddling with my hair.
and i crouch, 6 feet away from a bear devouring a rabbit,
and i watch as i become
and he becomes,
and everything becomes
awfully small,
incredibly unimportant,
till i begin to understand how we are all the same,
100,000 feet above earth you let go of your ego and realize
there are more important things than you,
or how you don't like swimming,
or how uncomfortable it is to have sand in your bed.
and so even when those tears are for the wrong reason,
or if that hole starts to look like a desert night sky,
i know the feeling of loneliness will always be less important than i wanted you to be.
