Saturday in July

Scream a silence crunched
beneath cold finger tips shattering
the crystal beauty beneath the
presence of possession
crushing the fragile wings
cellophane promises, silhouette
pressed to the windowpane
pinned to the fantasy, curling
legs into bridged arches above
the sateen waves, uneasy
port-side dock invading the shore…

It still tastes like lemongrass

It happened again.

I sat among the group where moments before I had engaged, and talked, and smiled. Now I was removed, absconded, separated behind an invisible film of isolation.

Alone.

The cold condensation dripped on my arm resting patiently on the napkin I’d placed beneath my mocha to capture the fluid and spare the sticky table surface. It was a vain attempt. I tried anyway.

Here again I tried, and yet I felt out of sync, like a dancer who for some inexplicable reason had missed the critical step and now pinwheeled and floundered out of sequence, twirling out of rhythm, collapsing in on herself.

Ourselves.

This hasn’t happened in a while. Why did it happen again?

Did I give a fuck? I recalled Mark Manson’s book. I’d been listening to his audio-book as I drove to the meeting place this morning; Mark’s callous candor making me contemplative and hysterical in turns. Nothing subtle about his truths, no apologies, and absolutely not giving a raging fuck.

But here I was in that moment, wondering if I gave a fuck about my emotion right then, the feeling of isolation, the gulp of solitude that had captured me in it’s bubble like a force-field separating me from that inclusion, that feeling, that desire of just being with and not being alone.

As always, I smothered the feeling and laughed louder, smiled broader, tried harder as the mask of hypocrisy slipped up my face beneath the eclipse of the blazing sun.

They say that the mind cannot differentiate between emotional pain and physical pain; that both are felt equally.

So when I tell you that the emotion felt like a thin knife slowly sliding past my ribs and through my heart cavity; angled up from the bottom and slowly forcing its way up towards the center of my chest…

It is a familiar sensation. And there’s nothing to be done about it.

Yet it still takes my breath away.

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