they float around my head like loose threads
catching sunlight in their cupped hands,
carrying stray dust motes on rides through territories
too vast to comprehend, too large to fully take in.
the world must be so full for them,
so filled with things and other beings,
all crammed into an inch, every inch.
i wonder what life must be like?
The other day i catch myself empathizing
with the short lifespan of a bug- how long
the night must be for them, how brilliant the day.
it must feel like forever. Could you imagine?
how their lives must be just as long as ours are,
just as vibrant and alive. They are conscious too,
so why wouldn’t it be the case?
it is not like our lives, instead- parallel.
we must move so slowly to them.
as slow as hand stitching a quilt 90 years long,
as slow as it takes me to do math, as slow as
the snails i found eating my tomato plants, and oh,
how much damage a hungry mollusk can do in a week despite all this.
how much damage we all do.
everything exists in relative space. What about this:
a boy who does not have words for his boy-ness hides himself away.
the boy-ness is now inside the chest of the boy who is inside throat
of his own body who is inside the metaphor of gender who is inside the poem
that you are currently hearing. Relativity.
i like to speak my way through things, gently picking my way through thoughts and feelings and
loose threads with dust motes & billions of vibrant insects as if they were flowers.
i don’t want to disturb them. I want no flower to drop a petal, much less because of me.
If i could find a way to preserve happiness, I would.
I know, I know. Darkness and the Sun. there is nothing without both.
the happiness will stay only as long as the memory of Dark is still there.
as soon as it fades, as it is forgotten, the Sun will over take and it will not
feel like Sun anymore. One cannot exist without the other.
again. Relativity.
you can only judge your distance from something if there’s something to judge against.
i am three feet from my own body, back and slightly to the right.
i am typing this poetry on my computer, which is in front of me,
which is on the desk, which is in mine & his room, which is in our apartment,
so on and so forth, onwards and outwards forever.
this was supposed to be a poem about textile metaphors, but it seems to have gotten away from me.
loose threads usually do.