When the Wind Blew

I toppled over when the wind blew and I wasn't able to get up, leaving me lying here after I grew up.

I looked deep inside your painting of a picture of a moment in your head. Now it's in my head, but in a different setting. That's my heart.

I hurt when I look at you because I'm outside you and there's this thing between us; I think it's a wall. But not a real wall, but a glass wall, a glass that's so cleanly polished that it's so clear that you can't see it. It's a quarter of an inch thick, and you can see it if you look at it from the side.

I looked at you from the side and I saw something familiar that I'd never seen before and I forgot where I was. Then you told me to snap out of it, but I couldn't, because I just can't help myself. When I get carried away.

It isn't love and it isn't lust and I don't think it has to do with my hormones or my private parts, but just my head. I want you for my mother because I never had one and I figured out that that's why I'm so lonely all the time.

But if you held me, I'd cry.

And the plate glass between us and between us and the world and between the world and me: it keeps the heat in but it keeps the cold in, too. And I'm cold.

And tired.

But don't think that makes it okay for you to come any closer. Come closer to the edge with me because that's where I'm comfortable and it'd be fun to see you there or someone there with me because it gets pretty lonely.

So, maybe that is what it is and I am in love with you because I wouldn't know what it is if it were there and I saw it. But I don't know what to call it or what it would mean if you called it and I saw it and I knew it and we called it out together.

I don't think it would change.

Things Become Automatic

My kitchen ceiling bows. When my roommate suggested it might be full of water from our overflowed toilet, I let out two loud guffaws and backed out of the kitchen.

The light cover over my bathroom sink is held on by a nut, which barely fits, but turns twice. After I replaced the light bulb last night, I brushed my teeth three feet away from the sink.

There's a mentally disabled man outside my metro stop, who comes really close when he asks for money in his one word sentences.  "Change," he says spasmodically.  I caught a glimpse of his eyes and my stomach gained twenty pounds.  So, I looked away.

I bought my first pair of running shoes last Christmas. I put them on and wondered why I waited seven years to bite the bullet.

Some people at my work talk about the people they meet in the countries they do stories in, others talk about whether the anchor is pregnant or not.

I'm teaching myself to think about money again, trying not to use my credit card. Now I ration myself shopping for things. This week I get to buy new make-up and mouthwash, next week household goods and groceries. Last week I splurged on clothes, which I hadn't done in a year. I don't remember becoming hard up.

I noticed today that the sore on my mouth is gone. I've had the same recurring sore for the past three years, but it goes away for a couple months during the winter. I think it's an iron deficiency. Better add vitamins to the shopping queue.

My favorite moment of the day is pulling my blanket over my shoulders, as I rub my legs up and down against the feather sack on my mattress.

When the cashier at Teaism frowned at me as I ordered my beer, I thought empathizing might make her smile. But she told me she had to work twice as hard as I did because she wasn't from my country. And my camaraderie with her only made her frown more deeply. I remember when I thought customers actually wanted to know when they asked me how I was. I didn't know I didn't want to know either.

I bought myself a brand new pair of ergonomic shoes, and the calluses began to soften right away.

I started giving money to the homeless again.

An Art Show

H. grounds her feet into the center of the hardwood floor, gripping her four ounce glass, half red with wine. She fills the room with her genuine smile, the kind that happens with your whole face. A result of the rare occurance of loving herself, only possible through her work. This occurance is always momentary, as doubt is swift, and an excellent robber of self-confidence.

In that moment, I adore her. There's nothing more beautiful than the face of self-love, and she's indulging in her moment. The reflective rectangles of images from her head cradle her from all sides of the room. She created these pictures, and everyone approves.