Sunday, February 16, 2014

a slow build of heartbeats

I recognize you:
the fresh grain of wood
the palpitation in the music
I know you better than I know myself.
I touch my cheek to the rough backing of the luan.
I know this feeling.

Come back to me.
Come back to the song where the notes sing words we never could
Come back to where the specks of sawdust are paralyzed and illuminated in the dusty flood of brilliant spotlight.
I don't recognize the words anymore
They must sound familiar in some corner of my heart, but now they are empty.
Come back.

Come back home to the smell of fresh flowers and vanilla candles burning.
I rolled around on the newly vacuumed carpet and stared up at the stars burning through the ceiling overhead.
 Like an infertile incantation, I repeat the same words over and over, impotent and empty.
One day, I expect, these sounds, strung together in a brash attempt at phonetic meaning, will work their spell, and I'll find the enchantment lifted.

Until then, I sit, my hands holding up my chin, listening to the empty sounds echoing densely in the dark cave.
A sigh escaped from my mouth,
as frozen breath forms a miniature cloud, the sigh floated out, and filled out the atmosphere directly surrounding me.
I felt its insulating cloud, comforting like a thick down comforter
Desire is a harsh mistress.

A man walked to the front of the room and began to speak.
He sounded a lot like you.
But funnier.
Ironic.
Keen.
There are very few keen people in this world.
They are the ones whose ears perk up when someone is speaking.
Who watch your mouth form words, thinking
[irrationally, perhaps?]
that if they only watch you closely enough they can uncover your secret
that if they only pay enough attention, they can, like a verbal physiognomist, read your soul from the shapes your mouth makes as it moves.
These are the people who do not pay attention, they pay over-attention.

Alert.
Every sense amped up to maximum attention.
Your mind has shaped each instinct, chiseled it into its own image and likeness,
and so now they are free to play. 
Your task is to let go.
Let them loose under the sawdusty spotlights, and see what sort of catalyst the smell of freshly cut wood can be as your instincts react with another human being's.

There, in that arena where you have forgotten to remember that your heart has lost its heartbeat,
you find a hollowed out space, like the bridge of your favorite song, 
where you don't think
you just act. 
Because you've been here before.

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