by sarah endsley
There was never enough time for this, for anything.
For you or me. For sycamores.
The smell of buttered popcorn dead on the floor.
And what’s inside of us, and what’s inside of it, of them, of everything.
If I could kiss an exploding trumpet in a forest, that might be close, and there’s always tomorrow, and such.
Describe the vastness of the disconnect. Fill that hole. Climb that mountain. NIKE, etc. and the point is the dot in the middle of meaninglessness.
And where you hold the tension in your body. And when you are free.
For all the dead men before us. For all the dead amoebas, swarming, forming a slightly larger amoeba. For all the dead slugs, crushed by a lawn chair.
A plain peanut butter sandwich. Yr sweaty palm. All the hurt you’ve caused yourself.
Your little sister. The only joke you remember.
Staying awake at night to describe it. Love.
Hating yourself, hating others. Forgiveness. The dichotomy. The question mark. The resume.
The answer, ever-present, often mutable. Love.
And shades of gray and black and white, only shades, and then COLOR.
God, we miss you. We miss you so damn much.