Your being is closer, the sapphire fragrance of your inner child stands tall among the adult reeds. And my hands dribble through the adequate possibility, catching the stickiness of the long stems between my fingers. Making sense of today, the future.
I think about you everyday. I miss you. I think about the what have I dones and the whys and why didn’t I and how could I and what was I thinking and in all of this, making some rational sense because sense without rational is like the national anthem without pride. oh Life, I don’t want to disappoint you anymore.
Relationship with my eight year old son strained like raw spaghetti rigid in the sink and when you toss those toothpick noodles against the wall nothing sticks.
The sauce burnt on the stove even though I like the smell because it smells like I cooked something nice like how I created my son without looking at a recipe or the ingredients.
Who measures out sperm or eggs?
So here I struggle, while he stirs the pot of boiling brain temperatures of mine and racing heart.
The perfect dish of basil and mushroom spaghetti doesn’t exist but getting my hands dirty and paste splattered on my apron that I don’t even wear because my whole body is a canvas for stains, is this process that at least I can use to become better at
making the dish of Life sticky and sweet enjoyable.
If I broke the bubbles in the bath with a sledgehammer , I thought myself a murderer. When I break my own heart, I feel like a loser in the gutters of East Toronto. What is the difference between smashing up other peoples lives instead of your own? What makes guilt fight conscience?
What makes you live so poorly so intentionally unpotentially? You know there is more out there for you then sucking bubbles down your throat trying to drown your sorrows,
I aim for sugar dirt. Crusted in your burnt bacon. I’ll bend so far I won’t feel my big toe, stuck in salsa that you dripped down the stove just to see it travel from top to bottom like our slow touches that give us freedom to love our flavoured beauty.
Like cat or baby sitting on our lap, and how often we have to pee or grab the kettle but we share that moment with our heart and our head and we sit still. We don’t get up because to disturb the beauty would be oh so unsatisfying.