[11] Every Bright and Momentary White String

Posted on May 17, 2009

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Once I raced a thunderstorm, but last night I drove into one. With every bright and momentary white string that ran straight to the sky, my lungs felt like a tree that emptied every branch. Because these days–shall I call you brother and sister?–I feel like an ocean tide, waking and sleeping, driving and falling. In my ever maddening mind I am only defined by my screaming opposite, which I told you today makes me a shadow because I only exist when the sun falls on me once and a while. We sat together in a church pew a few states away and all I could let out of my mouth was “Why couldn’t it have worked this way?” and you didn’t hear me say “I need you right this very second.” You want to know me so desperately and yet you only saw my utter weakness inside when the telephone poles and wires were snapping under the wind and I woke up infected with sleep. I’ve been gone every Sunday and I’m afraid to come home because you never saw me in pain and I’m just waiting for your love to run out. I am the three week old shadow and you’re just dying for the sun to go away. (How could you stand next to your brother and leave your daughter in pain?)

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