Open Up Time
I’ve been going about it all wrong,
treating conversation like a computer,
like a problem with a solution.
Maybe it’s my lack of alone time
just to tumbleweed and tell stories of chapped lips,
hair clips, flipped dreams
for no one but the sun.
Either way, I have been stumbling
out of smooth palette movement
in an attempt to avoid a crisis.
I have been surface-level lately
like warm milk,
melted chocolate, honey, cane sugar.
No substance to my sipping.
I have had nothing to say
because I haven’t given myself
the space to recycle, to
so I can say it.
My thinking has been
in projects and phone calls,
drowned in the desperate need for sleep.
I am alright.
I am sorry I haven’t been listening hard enough.
I second-guess myself
before anything that is truly mine
lifts off my lips.
I haven’t been as honest
because of my lack of trust
in my own blistering distance,
the downhill wind,
the sky scabbed
in my throat and kneecaps.
Busy is my default.
It’s my glorified sense of purpose,
but it only clips my Bright off in the end,
but it only numbs the magic drafts,
the conversations over coffee.
Busy is my dinnertime daydream.
It blurs until overbooked and boiling.
It bounces around itself.
Every task becomes an immediate occupation.
Every whisper becomes a screech.
But I want to be a symphony.
I want to lap at my own limits,
yet know when to recede.
sometimes the best quiet arrives at 4:27 a.m.,
a sliver dent in the ceiling the size of a caterpillar.
Sometimes it’s in the scrapes beneath the eyes,
a wrinkle on the curtain,
the pleasant percussion of the ceiling fan whirling
and rustling rhythm into the room.
I want so much.
I want all of the world
to twirl with
I’ve been going about it
with one tablespoon of Wrong
and two cups of I-Still-Have-Room-to-Learn-this-Lesson.
Put it in the oven.
The sugar and flour will mix and bake.
Open up time to interpret and understand
if you have nothing to say
or it all seems mediocre.