Certain thoughts arise so fast
At times, that thinking feels less
Like acknowledging lightbulbs,
And more like counting individual
Sparks of firework-explosions.
Like ideas being at war with the inability
To express them.
I wasted so much time not talking openly
About the things I would’ve been able,
To bring forth into this world as words,
Being afraid of how their appearance
would’ve differed, from what was in my head.
It is true that at the edge of this world,
Language also has its frontier,
But I’ve not even been there, yet.
Not even close to the places,
Where the sea parts, so that gulls
And starfish can conspire.
I’ve got my ideas about reality,
But they seem odd often enough,
To not take them as gospel.
I’ve got a few things that I know,
A handful of believes
And a whole lot of insecurities
blossoming in the dark.
For now, I would be fine,
Talking about how her hands are cold,
though her eyes gaze warmly, yet nervous,
how she swears like a sailor,
And still there’s this vulnerable truth in
Her words, like the lighthouse guiding you
To some sort of home among the reefs,
While her cigarette bleeds an almost invisible
String of smoke into the autumn sky.