At times
remembering at 12:29 a.m. on 2003-09-17
I put my hand up.
Another exit. You still call it running away
but
I only need to absorb this fistful of indecisions.
I used to walk the streets past quiet, sleeping houses. Small and young then, my hands thrusted into the pouch of a worn sweater. A second skin.
The time before, I settled on conclusions. Conclusions now, that unravel in my hands, just like that second skin.
I held the tips of my fingers up to my eyes. Searching for some sort of inner truth. So tired of borrowing the truths of others. So tired of reaching out for the wrong conclusions. My longing eyes...studying the curves...the lines. The similarity with my mother's hands, just like her thoughts, and ideals.
Growing up. The body crawls upwards, whether our minds, or souls, can compete.
At times, I am still on that grainy, cement curb, enveloped by the dignity of the night. At times, I am still staring and my fingertips...in search of some familiarity. Some, sort of name for this.
At times
At some times
I am not entirely sure that these hands were ever meant to be.
Or if they were...by random.
I can hear his voice, that soft, lull of concern, and beckoning. I pull my thoughts up from the glow of the porch light, grinding out the fiery glow of my cigarette, into a silent black smear beneath my feet. A final release of willowy smoke into the cold air, I slide my hands back into my sleeves. Returning obediently once more.
And smile.
never was � never will be
