Today’s post arrives in three parts: a poem, a confession, and a song.
It was something in the air.
Two pairs of eyes caught
in each other’s shimmering paths,
like water meeting sunlight,
like pendulums falling in sync.
Words cascading, fingers running.
I grope through the silence,
blanketed by the dead of night,
and hope, faintly, for my hands
to brush against warm flesh,
the trace of a familiar, wounded,
It feels like I’ve hardly lived enough to be writing about the things I don’t know. Such as, for example, why suburban street lights are some of the most haunting illuminations to come into existence, or how, when I drive to the grocery store, I have the strangest urge to carry the world on my shoulders and walk down the cereal aisle with a look of utter triumph. I didn’t know that summers can feel like lifetimes. I didn’t know that coming home meant rekindling loss. Most of all, I didn’t know that failure is kinder than it looks, and I didn’t know I had enough love to fill up the cracks of every broken thing that I don’t know, perhaps will never know, but will love the same.
The Boy In the Bubble: “The way we look to a distant constellation / That’s dying in a corner of the sky / These are the days of miracles and wonder / And don’t cry baby, don’t cry.”
I’m several decades behind, but I don’t think it’s ever too late to discover a bit of good music. (Paul Simon’s Graceland—go ahead, give it a taste).