Wednesday, February 06, 2008
4:43 PM - fragility
Current mood: selective
Category: Writing and Poetry
Bruce carries my comfort, like sand, in the front pocket of his blue jeans with the lint and shiny pennies.
When he thinks about it for awhile, he lets me admire what it would be like to hold the comfort with him.
I get lucky enough to carry a few grains of sand for a few days at a time. Just long enough to for me to feel it, remember it, crave it.
Then he takes it all away with short notice and cold hands.
Sometimes, I get to carry the pennies, too. But most of the time I get lint with a little comfort in there somewhere. It's up to me to pick it all apart.
He tells me the pennies are lucky.
And lucky is how I feel.
Until I remember.
That is not all he's said.
I feel like it slips little by little through the seems of his pants. If only I could hold it for awhile and keep it safe... I'd take such good care...
But he said he doesnt want this much.
And I should really listen.
So I watch admirably instead.
He has those careful, quick fingers. They linger in his pockets while I wait like a loyal pet. Hopeful. Worried. Consumed with the anticipation of probably, maybe, sometime soon, and possibilities. There seems to be so much more than dirty rocky gritty *sand*. Why let it slip?
Soon it'll be all over the floor!
Sweep. Sweep. It's so darn beautiful it makes me ill.
Each time he digs deeper, he loses a little bit here. A little bit there. A Little more on the floor and I'm still watching. Sweeping it under another rug.
I wonder how many times I will watch wordless and increasingly skeptical.
I sure hope we can learn to share soon.
I'm certainly not going to become a maid who ends up collecting lucky pennies hoping to get lucky for once.
I'm looking for more.
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