to-do list by:
freddie blooms season the cast irons. scrub the bathtub. file my taxes. everything to avoid counting down the days. fantasies of gasps escaped from your throat. we were nothing before we were everything. expectations are different than hopes, but both lead to disappointment. i kick booze and cigarettes and sugar but can’t stop chasing the highs of desire. i picture you rolling your eyes at my dazzling dramatics, declare, hello, i am ready to love and to be loved! it’s the end until it’s the beginning again. but we’re never ready when we think we are, are we. i grasp and clutch. love finds me only when i finally let go. i am a flailing, wailing child, face flushed and wet with desperation, all wild holler and clenched fists. sooner or later the collapse arrives. i open my eyes to find the transformed sky. it’s there until it isn’t. you paint pictures from meditations. softness exposed in a ray of sun, pen balanced between your fingers, yearnings of your body risen to the surface. i try to be satisfied with what we settled for. it was enough until it wasn’t. when we meet i ride the wave of presence, the tug of war, the balance beam. the spring comes, the waters rise, whether or not we are ready to get wet.
