The beauty of not having two left feet is that the right can console the left in times of need. There is a difference in understanding that cannot be combined by two of opposite orientations. There is light lived out to your liking. Feeling too consumed, flower petals fall all the time, you assure the assumed.
There are times of need and there are times when you need the right foot, to tell the left everything will be alright. And it will, in perfect order, but we don’t live in a perfect order. We live in a book we didn’t write and whoa nelly the author has quite the sense of humor, and probably drinks.
But there is something else, too, and the right doesn’t know it, nor does the left, and both feet are there in the room and dance. They don’t know what else to do.
All kinds of water can drown us, but only a certain type we call tears. You can feel the pressure against your face, and the phone is working fine, but you do not pick it up, you figure there are other things to do. You lay down on the bed and read a magazine. You make a pot of tea and do not drink it. You walk to the closet and back again, forgetting what you were looking for to begin with.
According to your mother, you’re just being like your father.
All day you steer along the edge of a brown hue and you can’t commit to calling it droll. You find things to satisfy the little urges, then find others that do not. After that last death, it was humid every day. No oversight to white clouds spreading damp over the hull of the town. With every sound, the sound of something dripping.
What’s right, as right as a right, anymore? Although I try to position myself amongst the crowds of the blessed, these feet feel tired and I walk, so some as some abruptly feeling dementia. I’ve lost track, how many nights ago? of the lines of myself and the limits of others and that’s because I’m thirsty to pile money up on the dissolving few. It’s a sharp difficulty waiting so long for the weapon to weep, to wait for the thrown down behind light, to look for solutions and their true names.
I’m being just like my father, and I hate hate hate it.
Which of these is the thing you most happen to want to give? The road as a world full of rows of black trees and white birds nested in them. Not mistaking the economy of action as a curious thing done in by your dreams. Staring. Staring at the scars on your left foot, they didn’t use to be there. I move my apartment’s contents around to look more like yours and feel like it just won’t do. There are too few rooms to begin with. There is madness at this stage, something akin to breaking apart paper.
Like how you can only be obtained by asking questions. Why writing letters can only mean that you care, but if that’s the motivation then you don’t. I was never good at baking which is why you never received bread from me.
It could almost be called a perfect nothing. Tomorrow the universe explodes again and is selling the remains as if they were good luck charms, that’s how it works.
I’ll buy two. One to eat today, the other to keep in the fridge until Friday.
