That Resurrection

You’re that redundant beat in my heart, that tickle behind my ear or beneath my feet, that blooming of rose petals across my face. You’re that whisper thumping the air, that clever spark of life, that missing spring of light and love in my life. You are those nimble feet of yours as the day leads on and the clouds part. You restart my heart in many ways as the tips of your boyish smile linger under my eyelids. You are that breath of life, that resurrection, that urgent need in the morning as I mumble in lethargy, as the sun rises but I still scramble for warmth tepidly. You are that cut on my heart, that published letter of a pillow case’s zipper on my skin, that rising of the hairs on the back of my neck. You are that fogged up circle on glass. You are that faint play of wind and childish laughter in the streets. You are that sway through midnight, that march from night to day. You’re that gasp, that hurt, in the hollow of my chest. You are that flurry of held back tears, that hiss I pretend to hear from time to time. You’re that impatient kettle clinking inside my ears, that travel barefoot, that flurry of nostalgia. You are that funny interrobang, that reasonable enough Oxford comma. You are that vintage set of records, that flame born anew. You are that goose skin, that tickle on my mouth, that ringing alarm. You are that unanimous vote, that recipient of my cheer, that zap in my backbone. You are that cunning smile, that delicious mess, that improperly proper presence. You’re that steaming hot, that precious cold, that dreamy bright light. You are that. Precisely, unmistakably, unerringly, inaccurately, invalidly, sickeningly that. You.

And I am but that girl in a queue of dangerously riled up pointing fingers. I am that puddle of freezing water after a snowflake dies. I am that embarrassing hiccup, that glitch, in a video entry. I’m that singular piece of repulsiveness, that slithering gust of wind in the backdrop of Snow White’s ugliest nightmares, that droopy, ersatz smile turned full-out grimace. I’m that lousy space of ennui in the past, present, and undeniably the future. I am that reduce of riveting words, that cutting out of a stalwart performance, that breakdown, that imminent thumbs down from a critique. I am that gushing blue of sadness, that trespassing outsider, that lawbreaker, that joy murderer. I’m that blindingly shocking call, that keen for something better. I am that. Typically, helplessly, unremittingly, unattractively that. Me.

Kindly wrap me away, covered and never dusted, in that lonely corner of your attic, just like I had been. Send me to the corners of your smile, if you’re kinder, although I am content with drawing out my solitary, it is exhaustingly dark and I am famished. You are so you, and I am so me, and I will always have little to no understanding and knowledge at all why our paragraphs are next to each other. And somehow it isn’t too bad. Never so bad. But also never so great. My penchant for wintry days is next to fictitious, because who knows how great a snowflake tastes.

                                               who knows if the moon's — e.e. cummings

who knows if the moon’s

a balloon,coming out of a keen city

in the sky—filled with pretty people?

(and if you and i should

get into it,if they

should take me and take you into their balloon,

why then

we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:

go sailing

away and away sailing into a keen

city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always

            it’s

                   Spring)and everyone’s

in love and flowers pick themselves