If I was a famous author I would publish a book with ten different endings which all went to print with varying degrees of rarity, but not tell the fans about it so that I could watch their confusion as they disagree over how the story ended. Then when they figured it out I would ‘come clean’, telling them that I had released eleven alternate endings and watch them panic again as they all try to find the last ending.
This is perfect.
The Forest calls but I’m not Forrest.
Elastic strands rooted in the Pacific
snap me back the moment I start to run.
The ground grapples at my feet like iron claws to root me to the past.
But some seed which falls on fertile soil cannot grow
with demented weeds hoarding sunlight.
Gusts of wind bear no answers to breathless questions
and interrogation is wasted on the already tortured air.
Hands search and grasp but just end up choking
the invisible neck of nothing, nobody, no one is here.
Mind drifts but body stays.
Motion ignores the myopic mitotic neurotic pull.
My gaze collects mountain range after mountain range, but maybe more than terrain divides us.
Maybe angels dictate this kinetic separation…
But only time and God know the cause.
Loneliness is the human condition.
I know this because our bodies are never prepared
I reach over to you and static sparks between us
like a match, a quick pang that leaves a resonance
in the finger tips.
We still jump when people tap us on the shoulder.
Still shudder when lover’s comb their fingers through our hair
and recoil from violent hands that threaten to impact us.
We can never plan how certain touches
How fresh shells of snake skin feel under foot.
How beautiful it must be to understand Braille
as a native language, small bumps translating to a
mountain under finger tips.
I never planned for this, to decipher myself into isolation.
It is difficult to conjure the nerve to touch your face
when there were so many nights
with only my heart beat for company.