closer

emerson hart is trying to tell me something. "there's more to love than we'll ever know. sometimes you're closer when you're letting go," he croons to my hope-hungry ears. clearly, though, he does not know me well. if he did, he would know that i hold on to things as if i were grasping them with the strength of an iron claw. and while i get better with age at forgiveness, i never forget. you see, to me the act of letting go feels less like a release and more like i failed at keeping something precious in tact. there is no peace in letting something fall by the wayside where it may, regardless of the need to move in a forward direction. i get it, i do. letting go is less for the thing you are releasing than it is merely a way to cut the tie to what specifically keeps you in one place. the link to the past. the hope that it, whatever "it" may be, could ever be any different. (thank you, oprah.)

i know emerson is right, and that everyone else who continue to reinforce his idea to me are as well. but i dont want to let this go, god dammit. i am terrified that if i allow this to slip from my white-knuckled fingers the picture of what the rest of my life will look like may get blurry, shifting to appear more out of focus than it is in. like the withering and wearing of time, i can't let the picture fade. i'm sorry, but there is nothing "closer" in that.

i do sometimes

remember when you asked me if i ever get lonely? i do. sometimes. only i wear it around my shoulders like a familiar, worn-in sweater so often i didn't know it had a name.

fragment

awoken by glass breaking
fumbling in the dark finding
shards of uneven fragments.
even without light with which to see
fingers tripped upon her reflection in each piece

should recall
can't remember
strangely unfamiliar
everything but the pricking sting of distance
memory left behind in mirrors.

time's attention

the warmth from the engine pressed against our backs as we lay,
stars slipping their cover across our skin.
it was only you and me in the field of hay and dandelion mile markers
but we whispered like we would hurt mother nature's feelings
if we spoke too loud.

you stretched your second finger up to the sky and when you did
the scent from your t-shirt willingly followed.
see that star right there? you said. the one that flickers with wild abandon?
i want that one to be mine. i love how she dances all night and never sleeps.

i waited then asked, so which one am i?
and as the words escaped my lips i wanted so badly the hope i felt
to pull your answer along into as wide a forever as the night sky.
aw that's easy, love. that one wayyy over there.
you pointed to one faint star way off in the distance above our heads
that hung sweetly beside the moon's halo.

but that one's the dimmest star in the sky, i said softly.
i felt the warmth from your hand cradle my chest and you whispered,
see, that one there it gives its' light to all the other stars without even knowing.
the way i see it, the night wouldn't have one single guide without the light from your eyes.

the chirp of cricket messengers and grass blades blowing in the breeze
faded suddenly against the quiet ticking inside my chest,
as if bringing the moment to time's attention.
your hand never left its' spot, and it was then that i knew never would i.