Friday, May 2, 2008

No Volvere

There was a time when I knew how to write, what to write, when the words bled through me--shot such spires from my veins. All seemed at peace in those moments, a child curled in tulip sheets, one world wet against my eyelids. The words were my own tripping blues and I would sit there, knees against my melodies, mulled at night.

There was a time when Broadway was all I needed to alight my life--when pink flicks at sunset or porcelain cups of Corona cordoned all fears. When dancing on doorsteps was decorated or deviated from only in directing: in dealing such sour spades of love. How I loved then. How I loved my city, my spark, my storms.

There was a time when I clung to forgiving; all was accepted or enveloped. All I knew was the chipped smile of partnership and lightning stuck on thundering Sundays. All I knew was the fat feather of pillowed pretense.

I am afraid, I suspect. But also disappointed in this more grown up of self, fearful of letting it show, fearful of what, exactly, I am unsure. Of knowing there is not enough or there is not, at least, all that I want. That the single thing, person I need now is gone, having galloped to some corner unreachable, unwritable even. The truth is so simple and yet still cutting, crisp and calling of my core. This is not right--but rightness and righteousness are overkempt, overspent. I want to be the exception to the human, the mortal, the mortifying; I want one step backwards to sew closed whatever wound--of head or heart or soul--weakened all wisps of waking. If only the world functioned, filled on such robust, raspy, unreal emotion. If only this once I could return.