Only Fingertips

Only my fingertips show.

It is spring today. I walk slowly up the hill, slow progress, following the leading shadow with my own footprints. The others lie spread on the young grass, sleeveless and shoeless, all still pale, like corn shucked prematurely.

The laces of my well-worn shoes reach to brush the fraying legs of my pants. Above, my legs are just suggested, just ideas that might have been, blurry shapes up to the hem of the sweatshirt, which replaces all shape with itself. The sleeves are too long, leaving only my fingertips. Only my fingertips show.

The breeze whistles softly through my fingers, as though my sleeves open to the mouths of empty glass bottles, held upside down, inviting resonance.

It looks funny. I know that. But being shucked invites all the wind at once. Being shucked allows too much. I prefer the wind in little pieces I can hold. Only on my fingertips.

Facebook

i figured out
why im avoiding it

by seeing
what i didnt want to see

and finding
what i didnt want to find

and now im sad
deflated almost

but i cant tell
if its jealousy
or disgust

Telling

I want to tell him, to show him what I have, what I mean, and what I'm made of. I pull his hand, pull him towards me and open my world to him. I throw open the doors and the shutters and the shades and it all falls out at once, having been stuffed too full for too long.

He laughs it off as the mess sinks to his feet. He kicks it around, like fallen confetti and streamers after a party, and my face sinks as it settles. With a hand on my shoulder, he tells me simply, "You're crazy."

And he means it well. He means it jokingly. He means it to collect the mess and put it away, hand it back to me. A dismissive, quick, analysis. Sometimes, he says it more to himself, though he doesn't know I think so. He notes it, tucks it away in his own mind's closet, which is probably neat and organized, with each bit sealed in boxes and taped shut. He might have a shoebox, reserved for me. About me. Maybe. Maybe it's filled with little notes. Crazy, they probably say, she's crazy. Buried at the bottom are the things he might not want to know. The lid is kept shut. But I wouldn't know. I've never seen it.

He doesn't understand. He sees a tangle of yarn without a beginning or an end to unravel. He sees letters that don't make words in languages that don't exist. He sees doorless rooms and staircases that don't go down. A past that won't be remembered and a future that doesn't have a chance.

Even now, I can't explain. I think in shades the rest of the world seems to be colorblind to.

Why I Haven't Blogged

The internet got too big for me. Walking outside, I looked up to find it towering above, having taken over the sky. I wasn't sure where it began, I just knew it overshadowed me, overshadowed everything, sat in every corner and crevice. So I left it. And I'm having a hard time finding my way back.