Caution, Falling Limbs

one, an ocean, an adolescence. together we went swimming and me, demonstrating a consistent flirtation with death, pretended to drown. you, demonstrating your never flailing loyalty and personal commitment to bravery and danger, saved me.

two, mexico, a family vacation in the throes of teenage angst. that summer we sat in poolside chairs and refused to take off our over-sized t-shirts long enough to go swimming, despite the heat.

a gust full of wind, a hand full of sand, an envelope and a paper full of ink. yes, there have been a lot of words. there has been a lot of time that never fails to pass, however quickly or slowly or estranged, it passes, birthdays, holidays, the solstice and the equinox, 7-day-forecast upon 7-day-forecast upon 7-day-forecast and on. we started out small and i suppose we still are, really.

three, a suburban neighborhood. in old tennis shoes i run the blocks it takes to get from my house to yours, just as you have done for me. i can get there in under 5 minutes when you need me.

four, a hospital, a ward. we found ourselves here more than once, in the waiting room, or perhaps on the other side of the door. there was the time we visited and you collapsed in the hallway crying when you saw us. your big toe started to bleed.

this is a place of falling limbs, with little pieces of the world landing in our hair, rain and snow flakes and building debris. this is a construction site. this is a life full of sour grass and tree houses and sneaking out the window to walk around our empty suburban streets in the middle of the night, just to be together and feel alive.

regarding your out of body experience

(on certain mornings, with a certain electricity hanging in the air over the clouds, you wake up suddenly, just before dawn. the sun rises in the east and through your window facing west you see the sky slowly changing colors, and you are in the wrong body. the sheets and pillows are cold, clothing stiff and unfamiliar. in the hall, the missing chunks of plaster and falling posters and red bathroom door are home to no one; uninhabited. but still you find yourself here, tiptoeing down the carpet, up the stairs, over your sleeping friends, through the window, on the roof. time passes like something distant, colorless, like the fuzzy projection of an old movie that you dream you were a part of.)

it happens just before dawn, in the hours of breathing that so often go unnoticed. the space where fingernails grow and eyelids collect a thick yellow dust and the sky begins to lighten, just a little, in preparation for the slowly moving sun. it happens with the suspension of the senses and the seven wonder of the world and television.

it happens like looking down on passing time and slowly aging lives. something spiritual, in transit to the clouds, suspended somewhere close to the ceiling. tough boys drinking hot chocolate to escape the rain, middle aged women reassuring each other of their beauty, someone crying on the sidewalk outside of a funeral home, passing by as if you saw them from above. prompting the questions, is this life? do i live here?

"there was never nothing," reads the title to a gray painting that is hanging on a wall in a coffee shop -- something, somewhere.