Why I don’t talk to you.
The conversation cartwheels, the words eddy and the phrases whorl and spiral like curls of smoke from your sweet lips… it’s a language that I’m barely proficient in.
I’m always half a beat behind, half a step down the incline, crawling in pursuit of meaning, hesitant to interject from a perspective unanchored and undefined.
My reach grasps emptily at the places where you used to be… seconds ago. What do you think? How do you live? What could I possibly have to give to you?
An outstretched hand sends an air wave towards your hem, like a pattern etched in sand quickly erased by the tide: it slips by, discrete, unnoticed, sly. If you were to brake the flow of those verbs, slow the chirrups of the word-birds so that I might osmose their significance and by doing so touch your face and smell your hair and feel your grace… and understand you. If.
But I can’t reach your present; I’m lost and flailing in sentences past, forgotten in quick-bad grammar-sand. And so I withdraw; silent, distant and cynical.
If you’d ask me, I would tell you this… Maybe you’ll ask me. Maybe…