(Not typical. Not singular. I'll throw a loop and see who stays on. You're not a part of me. You're all of me. To you, who matter. Every last one.)
Sunday let its drivers out, and I'm restless behind the wheel. My vision's fogged and the inability to see past my glasses makes me feel far from sound. Familiar melodies rush in my ears and out my windows, rolled down to spite the air turned cold.
I am middleman. State seduces state; I on one side but holding hearts of both. Your side holds my left hand; my right filled with those of my counterparts, my livelihood. My heart is encased in your bodies. I could be broken. In fact, I thought I was. But the heart's not divided. It stretches bigger than the capacity of most. Spread out over space, never divided in twos, threes, fours, or more. Pieces don't exist when the whole can be shared.
Everyday I watch as the lost and found give their selves away. Some found a peace and some will be pieces. Faith is operative; owners beware. Questions fly at the faces of the set aside, and they brace for the impact of realization. We will make it. But will we experience all we should? Doubt creeps; eyes leak. Tighten your faucets and throw away your tissues.
You are here for a reason. Here and there exist. We just exist outside of them. Vocal chords and screened words shape our beings, and we let them. Bodily touch and expression aren't taken for granted. I'll sit and watch the clouds that you float on. Bring yourself to me by tomorrow and be back in time for dinner.
You can distress yourselves or thank the stars for me and you and you and you and you and you and you and you…
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