I question the grace of mankind. I have always spoken of my desire for connection frequently, in my personal life and somewhere within the lodging of my decaying brain cells. Yet, I find myself perturbed into the glances of the concept of my “bench moment.” A phenomenon not owned by I, but is found to be one of my greatest specialties, if not the most profound of them all. Lasting from a few dismal seconds to lengthy in season. Though, I find myself in this season for (lacking) reason. I was convinced that the visitation of others into my life, was a blessing bestowed upon me. However, in this moment of slacking, I think I am the true dynamic of the specialty; The Gift.
Gifted beyond dimension, into which I understand and know my true nature. My specialty was honed with much fear and anxieties en masse and aged like a deep rich, oil without fragrance – so you cannot find it. Leave no trace, but I will linger in your memory and you will know me not by my name. Depending on whichever I give you. A blanket statement for the cliche or lost personified. Keep it sacred, please. You are allowed. You aren’t allowed. Fine by me. Dictate with glee, and understand I was waiting for you. But I feel the outskirts calling like the blue jays that spiral past me in the morning breeze of the trees of my state of serenity; and I too will follow like them towards the edge. Until I am undeniably dangling the sole of my shoe into abstract lodging of which you do not understand and are not invited. Even if I tried formerly.
What a shame.
I’m all ears.
petrichor - archive 