[8] Windchimes

Posted on May 2, 2009

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With windchimes at my wrists, my broken heart will make a scene. When I reach out, (I’m reaching out) please catch me. I am a child who wanders into the dining room with all the adults still talking with their chinking teeth and coffee cups. I am told softly to be off to bed and am quietly sent out of the room. Or, I am walking through an old and empty house, and after turning a few corners through the corridors, only more doors appear and the maid says “Why, I haven’t told you, there are seven stories to this house,” and disappears without any mention of stairs. Everything collapsed just in time for summer, when the taste of the season’s first apple and the sunlight will sweetly sew me back together. When I reach out, (I’m reaching out) please catch me. “I’ll always be alive as long as it’s you holding me to death.” The approach of the deep terror and fear does not coming from failing, of alienation, but from speaking and throwing words to you across the room for you to catch and you never hear me. The words fall like drops around your ears and you never even notice it’s raining. The threat of death comes not from a physical death but from a tired boredom; a futility and the understanding of meaninglessness that slows down the heart ever so softly until one day it stops. When I reach out, (I’m reaching out) please catch me. I’m sent with a candle across the pond in my small canoe. The three day old goslings asleep under a wing on the flooded bank. I’m sent into sleep, into slumber, and gifted with dreams of the hour before I say those two little words, dreams of the weeks before a girl sleeping inside my stomach breathes air for the first time, dreams of the feeling of the paintbrush in my hand and the vats of liquid color for the paintings that are to come to pass and come alive, dreams of witnessing a death. What are these? Messengers? These deep and sleeping statues come to me in the middle of the night, each holding their own candle while I wake into a thousand pieces. With windchimes at my wrists, my broken heart will make a scene.

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Posted in: hearts