talking to heaven

he is sitting here, in the room, even though it feels like he is miles and miles away....a tiny dot on the horizon that i have to strain my eyes to see. but no, he's here. i don't feel him, but he told me, he's here.

he wants me to say something, to open my mouth and talk to him. he didn't use audible words to tell me this, but i know it's what he wants. there are words here, in my heart, in my head, making their way into my mouth and moving over my tongue like liquid. they become bitter the longer they stay on my palate and i tend to swallow them to get rid of the taste. he waits for them, even to be spit out like a child who thought they were eating a packet of sugar but got salt instead. i know it doesn't have to be glamorous, adult-like, sophisticated.

he waits. patiently. i feel no nudging from him to begin although somehow i know its what he wants and what he waits for. id rather him reach out and touch me, push me forward, bring me closer, but we stay put in our places and dont move an inch towards one another. in fact, i move further away, make myself busy. i check my e-mail, and enter amounts on receipts into my budget; i glance over my schedule and contact some people. i try to fill my head with names and dates and numbers so they push out the real thoughts. everything crowds together and what was there before, working its way forward, is pushed to the back of the line again.

i know what he's thinking, logically as usual: it would make sense to just let them go, those words, those thoughts. it would be a relief, in the end, to have finally said them instead of tasting them over and over and over again. fear is what makes them bitter and pushes them back instead of out. what if he rejects them? what if i look like a fool? worst of all, what if i let them go but he doesn't hear them? then they are out there, and bouncing around the floor and walls in empty space--meaningless. is it worst to have said them and get no response or to not say them at all? obviously, my actions answer the question.

my stupid mouth

i find myself gagging on my own foot these days. maybe i should just keep it in there and save myself embarrassment and heartache. i end up saying what i dont mean to say or doing things that i dont realize have far-reaching implications. i dont know which is worst--realizing ive done something wrong and then needing to correct it a few days later, or realizing im doing something wrong as the words slip out of my mouth. is it better to instantaneously recognize your failure or wait and let it seep over a few days until its nice and thickly flavored?

its frustrating. a small piece of the pie chart of my heart (my heart is circular for this illustration only) doesnt want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i hate to see people hurt or offended or angry and i want to be sensitive to them. the jolly-green-giant sized piece of the pie is the part that doesnt ever want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i dont want to have to fix them--i dont want to have to have to recognize the wrong in what ive done; i dont want to have to feel stupid; i dont want to have to be honest; i dont want to have to say im sorry. sadly, id almost rather live very small and safe than large and messy.

once upon a picture

the figures stare out at me from behind glass that is reflecting light and images from the room around me; an imperfect mirror.
i recognize the faces and their smirking smiles. i try to concentrate and remember, too, what it felt like to be them on that day, before they were snapped into still photography and planted on my desk to gather dust for years.
they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads close together, with only a small sliver of sky pouring through the gap between their ears. their stances are firm, arms flexed to showcase impressive biceps.
i remember when my body aged out of that shirt, and when those watches broke, and i had to cut off the hemp necklace in exchange for a more professional appearance. it speaks to the time that has passed between then and now.
holding the photo close to my nose, my eyes pour over our bright features, carefree expressions and smooth, young bodies. vaguely, i recall a feeling of freedom, of exhaling, of moving and doing and thinking with little difficulty or consequence. we lounged about at will and acted impulsively. we ate what we wanted, and spent time lavishly and without regret.
i am drawn to his younger image, gazing across his shapely face, his startling eyes and confident gaze. his mouth seduces me once more.
us. frozen, a motionless moment to remember the then before time moved one tick-tock at a time and here we are growing old, wrinkly and in love with one another like we did that bright, timeless day.

play by play: class on june 19th; written june 19th on the porch while consuming iced coffee

words come in and out like sounds flashing by an open car window at 80 miles per hour on I-40. she takes a moment to wonder how rude it would really be to put in her headphones.

he babbles on about geography and timing and this or that translation.
she traces around her hand, palm-down, then makes smiley faces within each empty finger space.

he changes the slide to another black and white striped with several bulleted points stated with careful rhetoric. her hand slips and a finger-face frowns back lopsidedly.

"this is an important revelation because it reveals a point about..."her face is screwed up into a look of intense concentration as she holds her notebook on her lap and draws several ecstatic clowns. they juggle and smile widely. she struggles to get one atop a unicycle when a five-minute break is called.

all she can do, seated at the front of the room, is write AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! in the margins to convey her mounting frustration and boredom to her neighbor, who giggles to show amusement.

back in the squeaking, felt-covered chair, sipping 7-UP from a dented Styrofoam cup, only 3 more hours to go and just 3 behind her. she starts the hour with her water bottle modeling, imitating it carefully, looking discreetly from bottle to notebook so as not to reveal where her attention truly lies.

he noticeably clears his throat in response, as he can obviously see her drawing from his perch at the podium. she quickly looks up in interest and copies from the slide:

"*The Message
*The Match
*The Marvel"

astounding alliteration. she doodles a picture next to each point to help "associate meaning." the super-hero's cape next to the last point trails off and becomes the stem of a cartoon flower with spots in the middle. soon there is a garden and a bee dances on one of the petals of a smiling daisy.

"and what do we know about this?" ah, another rhetorical question beaks through the invisible dome allowing her to ignore him. a voice behind her, the only other male tone in the classroom, responds smartly. the same voice that's been snickering at the teacher's corny jokes all day.

floppy ears emerge on her paper, joined soon by a long snout and mouth with buck teeth, open wide in a long , loud HEE-HAW!

"Here are some visual representations. As you can see..."

the home stretch. she draws a gigantic clock in the center of the page and scribbles out new hands every time they move forward. underneath, she adds a picture timeline of what happens each minute: a stick figure points to a projector screen; another, face-down on a desk, surrounded by Z's.

he finally moves between the desks and she puts her finishing touches on a scaled-down sketch of the desk sand chairs before her. she flips her notebook over and smiles innocently as she receives her seminar evaluation form.

she connects a row of 1's down the right side of the page like a gigantic arrow that points to a grinning smiley face under the word, in black, capital letters:

COMMENTS.

the look of love; june 19th on the porch at night by the light of twinkling bulbs.

i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as i stand and re-adjust my jeans around my waist. my hand goes instinctively to smooth the fly-aways of my honey-colored hair. i dare, for a moment only, to imagine that my long locks are actually quite pretty. honey-colored. i imagine walking back into the office and my husband looking up from his computer carelessly only to be enraptured by the sight of me. "darling," he says breathlessly, "i am so lucky that you chose me. sometimes i can hardly express how beautiful you are to me; your slender waist and silky, honey-colored hair." suddenly, he is next to me, fingering the irresistible follicles.

rather, suddenly i realize that i don't really want him to say such things because i would laugh in his cheesy-cheese face and not believe a word of it anyway.

what i really want is a lingering look. to catch his eyes on me when I've been unaware, as opposed to when i stare him down and then nonchalantly return to the task at hand, moving extra seductively when i think he has glanced my way. a look is all a wise woman ever really requires from her man. it would communicate all the desire and appreciation needed without bothersome words in the way.

words...there are only so many of them and they've already been used in the usual pathetic combinations. did i say pathetic? i meant poetic. being original can be such gut-wrenching pain.

but a look? that is truly unique...
unique to the relationship;
the moment and the feelings therein;
the face...
the eyes themselves are entirely one of a kind--no two people can offer the same soundless expression.

i want him to leave the words up to my fantastical imagination and just...
stare:
unhurried,
enduring,
entirely,
occupied by nothing but that one task.