I want the sounds to come through my fingers
The motions to move my sadness in a sweeping motion
Across an unseen sea
An intangible, unreachable, almost-stranger touches parts of
me
That have more need than baseball has peanuts
And hard parts soften
I see edges of things that have been covered
In painted pictures of magazine pretend perfection
What I had used to hold me just right
And I didn’t even realize it
I wish I could stand on a virtual mountaintop and
Sing for everyone to hear
Remember how sweet imperfection is in its reality
How real comfort is
When it has hands to hold yours
Callused and dry or soft and warm is irrelevant:
A hand is a hand
Inside here, moments collide with months
Need and longing and desire are poured into a blender
And crushed to pieces
So small they are indistinguishable
One from the other
One inside the other
Each beside each other
Instead, give me rainbow patterns
Of tie dyed magic
Misted into melted moments of
Real, rigid pain
Of trying so hard that parts of you, metallic and thick,
That were never meant to, bend
Twist into circuitous curls
And so you wear the strange decorations
Trying to sort out need from want from longing from hope
Knowing they are all too closely related
To break apart cleanly
Perhaps the lesson here, as I keep looking for one
Is that nothing real
Breaks off clean.
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