The Weight of Waiting
All I want to do with these days is make my mouth soft and red as an artist’s brush and paint lurid pictures in dark places. I want to tell former lovers the dreams I’ve had of them this week. I want to blaze through all our shared memories, fingers setting things aflame till their iron skeletons are exposed, blackened but strong.
Instead, I purge and pack. Unearthing the little caches where I hid memories dim and damp. Every photo and found letter a glancing blow to my will, a reminder that all the things I want to do must wait, wait indefinitely; and so I tremble with thwarted power, made soft-handed by obligation to laws I impose upon myself. I am a ruler of one and therefore a ruler of none.
I pick up potsherds of meaning and glue them haphazardly here, my little mosaic of impotence. Let us not call it art.
