her old tattered sweatshirt leans away from her slight frame
as she stares at the used books scattered across her hardwood floors
cars pass old apartment windows
and the wind brings tree branches to kiss cream city bricks
the room is dark
save for the reflection in her vintage glasses
and the pulse of the keys beneath her fingertips
type type typing away
urging the universe to speak for her
as she whispers into the silence of an empty apartment
an apartment all her own after the walls soaked up
each passing moment of love, sex, and arguments
each delicate syllable of lovers falling out of love
and a cat screaming for attention in the midst of it all.
this is a portrait
a portrait of what it must be like to look in on my life,
to see me sitting as I am,
having fallen far out of love, leaving pieces scattered between the cracks in these floorboards
sitting in my almost see-thru leggings pondering the current affairs of my life.
half a bottle of wine and a playlist of lilting phrases and loving images
all I can see if the possibility of more love,
the sense that the top of the wall will come – the route I’m climbing will come to a fulfilling climax
but I always forget – after the climb comes the fall,
comes the trepidation of returning to the ground
having felt the rush, the excitement, the fear,
knowing what I can accomplish,
and yet doesn’t the light dull once you’re back on the dirt?
doesn’t the ache only intensify once you’ve known what you can achieve?
aren’t I emotionally unstable merely because I’ve pushed myself to the extremes
over and over again….
I crave love. I actively seek love.
I fall in love in an instant
because I know it’s power. I want it’s power.
I think I’ve found it.
I felt it the moment I met him.
The question is: will he let me climb?