counting

Stuck like tired tar. Darting eyes and hard blinks of hope, anguish, or something unfelt and deeply affecting. The pause, the grey and subtle hesitation. The over-thinking of mistake and mis-alignment. The way a candle burns at night to new music and a swirling wash across your eyes, making the candle's flame a blurred beacon of focus, and you blink several times to be sure it's there.

A morse code of memories. The instants spread across a blank sheet of several years. Where they tear though are glimpses into in unwritten biography, and they widen, with provocation, into fuller scenes of crying and laughter and heatbreak. Do you remember what you did, or what someone did to you? As these holes know of untrained scissors.

So Fridays keep coming. That nervous twitch of music and my knee keeping time. The space between the lyrics of memories and how some moments might be made for smashing old pains with new kinds of better pains. What might keep me up at night or send me straight to sleep. I honestly couldn't say. Is that indecision the real love I've been seeking? In the crossed out drawings ever smaller and smaller. The most of a given situation might be made, but we are only ever in control of the parameters. Where blacks and white fade to colors, I keep thinking, and writing. Losing count; that was all part of the plan. All part of the love, trying to grow.