Stay: Truth hurts

Truth? You want the truth? 

True, it would be hypocritical of me to tout honesty and not be honest myself. 

Okay, I'll tell you the truth: If I left with nothing but this slim memory of him, it would have been worth it. If he were the only connection I ever made, it would be worth it. 

Yes, that is why I'd stay. For him.

Because he's human even when he tries not to be. Because beneath it all, he's... tactile. He has substance you can feel.

That is the real truth. 

Okay, okay. I concede It's not the real real truth.

Well, I haven't said it because it hurts. And that's the real real truth. 

That we both hurt the same way.

Yes, for that I'd stay.  

Stay: WHY?!!?

She'd done it, she'd shot herself in the foot. Countless, through countless conversations she'd played it cool--perfect for once, for the first time in her life, actually. 

And then she pointed the gun down. 

She should have stopped then. She could have stopped; it wouldn't have been abnormal. 

She could have walked away with the gun pointed towards the ground. 

Awkward?? Maybe. The better choice??

Absolutely.

Instead? Instead she stood there, and smiling all the while, she pulled the trigger.

Limping, she walked away hitting her head against her own embarrassment. She'd been doing so well. Maybe he hadn't noticed. Maybe he didn't see the blood or hear the shot.

Not likely. 

Stay

She wanted to be real with him. Honest. No bull. None of this superficiality.

None of this chit-chat because that's what social norm requires.

She knew he was deeper than he let on--by the way he spoke. He used the same voice she used when she was speaking to someone she didn't know yet, someone she didn't trust, someone who didn't care that her favorite color was gray or that she did weird things like yoga and meditating and feeling energy between her hands.

His was a careful voice, too nervous to be calculated. Insecure. Uncertain. Guarded--that's the word--Guarded. Just like hers, because she did weird things.

The truth is though, she'd stay for that voice. She second-guessed God for that voice. Not because of what it was, but because of what it could be. Not because of what it had said, but because of what it would say.

She just wanted him to trust her. She wanted him to use his real voice, the internal dialogue she knew he had. More than anything.

Because they had the same voice.

Where, or Knowing, or Commemorating One Year--I Do Not Know

I walk through hills of dead and dormant grass--
Mud and sand--knowing these are
Not your hills
Nor these clouds your sky--
This breeze your
Wind.


I am not where you are.


So I'll sit on a mossy bench made of wood 

At the base of a tree
And watch the blue mountains
Stand firm in the wind.
While I commune with God about the
Things I do not know.


But you are where you are and
This you know--what I do not.


This is not your place-- that I know--if it is
Mine... what I do not.
These hills, this sun, the seasons, night:
To whom do they belong?
Whose heart within the valley lies? If it is not yours
Nor mine?


The rivers, trees, distance of land and seas-- separating
You from me: my
Own choosing.
Only I do not know if the choosing either is me.


I do not know, but you know you are where you are.

January

January is a month of bones:

Skeletons that rise from the soil and shake

In the bone-grating shriek of wind, or keep quiet, 

Save for the creaking of joints;

Save for the breaking of limbs,

The grinding of body against earth with 

A sharp cuuurunchhh. 

January is a month bones:

Silent stirrings beneath the soil,

Sighs above it. 

And everywhere a stillness

Before the world shakes off its slumber 

To the Sun

Where it lies close and deep,

safe, asleep. 

Resting soul of the seasons. 

January is a month of bones. 

Rowing

I'm putting my oar into the sea

Only to push against the sand. 

Lights

You've always had a face full of conflict, but when someone 

pricked you between the plates and

you lowered your shield--

I saw faith in a lifetime of dawns, 

prisms of color in gray raindrops,

light reflecting off warm windows in winter;

A light flashed inside me and 

flickers in memory.