I am awaiting an end to the fluster, to the soft waves of uncertainty I constantly, consistently push out of my eyes. Still, I favor the past, with all of its giant, thundering flavor. Still, I prefer the phantom of what I have lost, with an icy assuredness, with the violet fawns of boxed rooms. With the chocolate breaths that burned each night alive.
I am lost there, even, on the familiar streets, where promise of pretention waits, where I can close my eyes and turn my frame to whatever wind it was that brought me, bought my beginning. Why I don't fight for anything. I can't fight for anyone, when my weapons lie preoccupied in other times, golden, grasped by frozen fingers, bent around the hills that hid their heads in portable, potable skies.
I drink to that, to them, to him. I drink in the skies, bled in circles forward that leave me dizzy and dazzled by loss. I should feel guilty for going back, if only in my thoughts, but instead am guilty in this forward march, in body or in mind. Is it possible to belong to a certain time of life, an experience evidenced by burning flags of love? Is is possible to only find yourself in other places, not those you have chosen, but those discarded, discredited for the flimsiest of flaws?
Suddenly, it seems, in moving this direction, whether forward or upward or back again--it seems I am waiting for a frantic fluttering of wings, a gentle, generous sign. I am waiting to take back the only words I have spoken and known to their insides, seen in their brittle bones.
Signs, like the skies, like the wind, are uncertain, if ever evident, but so are needed to tear out fears--to push back at the skeletons that embrace so suddenly, cradled in our insides and curved against our irretreatable sails.
