Refractive Light

For me the draw and drag of writing is welcoming someone into the house of my spirit. A humble abode that is not often clean and tidy, but upon news of a guest I prepare with a reasonable tidy. Enough to be presumably clean, not enough to suggest the expectation of company. 

My house is lived in with my mass of milk containers piled in the hallway to the kitchen and dishes stacked, filling the sink. I dislike the look that gives, but I often find myself to busy to keep up with trivial tidings. My bed slept in. An understatement because that bed has seen me curse at night, seek the value of comfort and solace, that “turn in” feeling, that I can never find. But the scene of a mess of sheets and blankets strewn madly about remains. A hard fought trophy I push it out of mind because of insomnia or the voracious tossing and turning, yearning for a renewing rest, but somehow remains out of grasp. 

It’s my abode and I dislike the way that it reflects me. But the doorbell rang, an individual is ready to walk into my space. Assuming here to get at friendship, a sense of camaraderie, hopefully nothing undue.. I put on the face I expect them to receive. We chat and as the conversation evolves and devolves my shape and form wiggles and wabes, their shape follows suit in this strategic way of attack and defense to figure out the audience for safety, intimacy, and how deep we will be able to connect.   

I let you in. Parts of me started to bend differently, bend happily. You sat on the couch and it started to glow. A luminescence this soul abode needed. I have seen golden love turn into ghastly sand within my arms. A beautiful endeavor turned into a spiritual tenant and long term haunting. But I’m perhaps unjustly optimistic for new contacts to develop differently. Still, we dive into the mess of friendship, love, and the misnomers we’ve each come to know.

 

The conversation came to an end as the night grew late. We could have kept talking for hours, but the nagging list of responsibilities that tomorrow held in store brought the talk to an abrupt halt. I walked you to the door  and wished you well on the return to you're own souls abode and that the space reflects the beauty you are beaming with.  


I am left with a house cleaner than it was when the day began. Space and nightfall are now washing over me. It is sweet that I met a kindred spirit, but my issues with night remain the same. I pull my bedding from the wild mess on the floor and assemble it in proper fashion. I wish this vicious cycle of menial sleep would reach an impasse and I could skip the insomniac mess come morning, but I bet on the alternative.


I go to bed alone filled with fevered dreams. With the richness of connection and camaraderie fresh on my mind, I heave and ho trying to find the right position in bed. Though the company was a simple salve pressed over smarting wounds, I beam a smile in the dark,  tucking my misfortunes momentarily away. I rotate sides once more, the mix of bedding beginning to tangle, almost knotting around me. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

It Was Never Just Falling Out of Love

It Was Never Just Falling Out of Love You say you fell out of love— like the glass had cracked, spilling out the meaning of dreams, the sting of shared growing pains, hopes of home, the gilded laughter curled around our cats, our joy stretched across oceans and train rides. Like love just… poured from that once-hallowed glass, and now the nectar pools, forgotten, drying where no one kneels to gather it. But we were almost a decade in. You don’t lose that kind of time without feeling the unseen quakes— jarring bones, jarring memories. After you slept in someone else’s arms, my body forgot how to seek yours, and yours forgot how to reach. We slept on different floors, in different worlds, each night drifting out to sea, no one left steering us home. And I felt it— the shift, that slow retreat dressed in quiet like it was mercy. The new rhythms we rehearsed in silence: rising alone, still wondering if you'd notice the empty side of the b...
Read more

Upon a Quiet Night

    Upon A Quiet Night It’s surreal, this walking upon the earth—jockeying and wrestling with yourself to stake deliberateness, to claim intention, to become something you yearned for, something that once bore fire in your heart. From quiet self-revolution in spaces outgrown, to traversing avenues physical and liminal previously unknown. It is eerie to sit down upon a quiet night and host the ghosts of traveling souls here no more. To hold the voices and personalities of those once loved and tenderly cared for, now revolving in space somewhere else—off in a distant place without a trace, or crossed over to the world beyond. The residue of loves discovered, or connections tempered, never quite fades. Upon a quiet night, if still enough, the atoms in space hoist their charge—their beauty bursts in magnificent ways. The myriad versions of self that became present and possessed your body become strange—variably close in memory. Some farther, some closer. Some buried, some ha...
Read more

Lightning Tatters, Mirrors Shatter

 It’s comical the slowness with which a face changes. I caught glimpse of myself a couple months ago.   Pale, brooding, spiraling—   I spent more time in the sun than was optimal.   It’s comical, those subtle changes.   A lifetime ago, the mirror would smile—   warm, happy, the feeling   reverberating from glass to lips.   It’s comical,   this mirror holds all,   this mirror holds nothing.   I strike me, the mirror.   It’s comical how it sees—   now more complete.   Cracks crinkle, cracks crinkle into different cracks.   The opulent hue of bliss   that lights a smile—   the deep cold tremor   that lurks below a long look.   The rich vein of love ran dry,   idles in still eyes.   My face, at once a still meadow,   weathers the emotive seasons.   Ebb and flow ...
Read more