cluttering the net since 2001

concrete love (prose)

Wednesday, Jul. 10, 2002
People come into my life and I hesitate and hesitate and hedge along the edge and then I get to where I open up and let them in. Then I back up a thousand feet or more and glare at them for being inside my circle and I hedge backwards and they never look the same when I back up. So I walk forwards and study them closely. I get really close and look hard but I still donít let them get close to me. I blush if they look at me too hard. I feel the depth of their gaze and it cuts my flesh from their want. Then my circle turns into a mirror and I see myself and I wonder why anyone would want to come into my circle. And then I retreat to the edge, curved up against it I am fetal. They always come closer when I am fetal-like weeping. It is then that they get a glimpse of who I truly am. They look at the sad beauty of my pain and it is then that they touch me. When they promise that they are not like anyone that has ever come before. They wrap their arms around me when I am childlike and vulnerable. They kiss my face when I have opened up by the baring of my pain. They sing sweet words into the circular air. They catch birds in their hands so we can revel in the release together when they again fly. It is then that I stand, that I reach back. That I donít look away from their gaze. It is when I meet them eye to eye and let go of my fear. It is then that they walk away.

If I chase, if I run out of my circle I fall stumbling as they laugh. They speak evil words about how they came into my circle and I should be so grateful and donít I see that they cared enough for me to come into my circle and wait patiently for my tears to dry. But that my circle, my space is not where they wish to stay. They tell me always that a boy without paper cut words will arrive. They point to the blue sky and with laughter say that I should always believe. That I should be happy to see them traveling the outer circle near but never in my own. That they are there for reasons. They promise me that everyone is not like them. That I should wait patiently with my beautiful eyes for a sight so completely true. They always kiss me goodbye before the laughter.

A crowd slowly forms along the edge. The edge grows tall each day. My circle forms a tower, what is a lighthouse some nights becomes a shield on others. I faintly hear the voices of the past conversing together about a girl that used to be inside. A girl no one can climb high enough to find. They doubt each otherís stories and blame it on bad memory capacity. They smash cigarette ashes against the edge. Inside I hear the sigh of regret in the wind that sneaks through the cracks in the circular walls. I place my cold hands over the air looking for a sign of warmth. The cold air freezes my wish. And the voices fade.
8:49 p.m. ::
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