Thursday, December 06, 2012

A single spark explosion

I am a creature of habit, I know this. My heart is the heart of an addict and I don't deny it. It searches for nutrition, for satiation in a word, or a look, or a hand on my hand. It searches in eyes that close a tenth of a second too long to qualify as a blink, but not quite long enough to justify how much time I might spend later on wondering what was contained there. 

And then...The bright lights of morning. 

I'm a lover of mornings, though I admit that it's not well-known due to the fact that I frequently sleep through them. This morning, the bedroom was awash in a pinkish light that flooded and dimmed as the blind swayed against the window frame. It's that rhythmic song of inhalation and exhalation that leads me to believe that I could still find you even if the brilliance that's holed up inside of you didn't fill every room that you walked into, didn't blanket every inch of me in warmth, didn't leave my eyes smarting.

Addiction, fixation, energy. A word. A look. A hand on my hand. Someone put this here. Someone dreamt this. Someone painted those two hands, the finger tips of which are laden with electrical current. When they're pressed against my skin, my body hums the euphonic morse code of your heart beat. And every other thing, every other thought, every other word... melts into that pinkish light.

"I dreamt last night I saw you
a single spark explosion
negotiating with the dead
by the bright lights in some ICU
on my chest you put your head
and said
there you are
there you are
there's my heart"