Solomon's Blade

We were discussing the way the molding meets the floor. In such an ordinary transition from form to function. We were talking ourselves into to thinking it was enough. The everything we've always had. And all the rest that'll never be ours.

I was supposed to be listening. Pushing the tacks into my heart. But all I could do was talk. In words that I never use. Unless I'm trying to be someone else's child.

There was the package. To open. Insides waiting to be heard. There was the message. Winking at me. To listen to. There was everything happening. In a fury of noise. In an exception of strangers. Time in its stockings. Circumstance adjusting the garters.

High heels on the sofa. Walking tall on heavy clouds. Sneakers on the chair. Running hard against the walls. With too many lights on when we belong in the dark. Quilts in the washer teasing the wrinkles on their frays. Jittery hands sewing. Not to mend. Just waiting for. A reason to recover from all this fixing what was never broken.

Until we each have. Our own halves of the nothing.