It’s a day that sends birds higher on the cold front breeze.
The first day in ages that their wings do no work at all.
I can see the liberation in their movements.
I see the water so blue and still-like that it seems to be bored.
Too untouched for a blue-sky morning.
The blue of the water so very much bluer than that sky.
My walls are blue, too, but so purposefully gray.
As I stare out the double-paned glass at the bored blue water, I notice my nose.
I always see my nose, no matter the direction I am seeking.
Why have I never thought to pay attention to it?
Shouldn’t eyes have been placed so that the one protrusion of the face
is not eternally nagging them?
Maybe I’m claustrophobic right now, sitting in this gray, indoor, chilled room.
Nobody knows I am here. T
hey have not put thought to it yet this morning.
I have put thought to where you are, though.
Much thought, in fact.
I’ve thought of your eyes shining a dull green that
only offers itself in times of thought.
The straight face and occasional laugh that to many seem
regular,
unplanned,
characteristic.
I see them now,
in my mind,
the undertones of your night
taking your eyes hostage.
I wish they would release them,
because the sparkle
is what I love best.
Lately, when I close my own eyes,
I see a trapped ocean,
desperate to escape the brick red walls that enclose it.
The crashes are so violent, so calculated,
but not even the spray is able to topple the barriers.
I want to knock it down.
A giant hole, right in the middle,
me with my sludge hammer,
sweating beads and blistering fingers,
swinging away until the sea frees itself.
This vision is strange to me,
see,
because when I think ‘free,’
I think of the wild waters
of the untamed oceans.
I think sunset in Monterrey,
with nobody in sight but the massive sun
dipping into its evening bath.
When I begin to form words about what I want to make of this feeling,
I have more visions.
The most prominent is a sketch book.
Four pages deep, each of a human outline, w
ith astrological markings, directional arrows, clues to each own psyche.
I’ve given them to you to peruse,
to see if you can find mystery or err.
The first page makes you laugh.
You’ve seen it so many times before,
and you confirm your knowledge of that sketch.
The second and third, you know, too.
They send you into question,
they show you pieces of yourself,
pieces of your own future.
The fourth, however, is a bit smeared.
It seems that only extreme times call on this sketch to arise.
It looks most careless.
More imperfect but true than the rest.
This sketch you miss when it has left its page for too long.
This fourth page begins to fill with colors,
dark and bold,
careening around the shoulders,
down the legs,
not paying full attention to the lines it set out to follow.
You realize that, more than a sketch,
this page is full of energy.
Dark, glorious, intent.
As it fades away,
so too do the lines of the body.
So too do the eyes as deep as the the world
and the fingers on fire.
You miss it already,
but are happy to have the other three,
faithful that the last powerful sketch will return in time.
Something so pure and intimate could find no other eyes to see it.
You smile now,
a half-smile, really.
The smile that you take on
when nobody else is watching,
the smile that tells yourself-
I was right all along.
And you know, that the fourth piece of paper
will lie in wait for the return of its soul,
only to show itself as true and real,
as all-encompassing as a spirit can be,
and that sparkle flickers in the knowledge
that it will show itself only to you.
