1987
Not too far from here, when the lake freezes over, take up a pair of hockey skates with me and fly. I feel like I can cross into Canada, into an orphanage, perhaps, where our guardians are meant to hate us. Try to lift off with me, but then leave this memory, because here comes the point when, overwhelmed by the lightness of freedom within arm’s length, the blades leave the ice. Here is where I fell, all those years ago. Here is where I lost consciousness upon the ice.
1999
At arm’s length is where I keep you, but arm’s length is still close enough to feel your warmth; too close to ignore; too close to use cruelty to finish the job. I don’t want to see the hurt I cause. Only slightly better to imagine you like a pierced fawn that seeks out a running stream and lies hidden from view.
1987
When I wake, frosted breath fills my eyes. For the first time, there they are. Holding me. Frightened. That’s the key? If you hurt yourself, they notice. I never hurt myself again, because I don’t want them to. Come back to the memory now. We’re 14.
1999
I’ve learned to lead the white lie life; knowing that I left my charcoals at home, because I knew I would have to borrow yours. The pencil you have, cut near to the end; When I take it, I have no choice but to brush your hand. I take it, held by the middle, and you need it back; I do the same, and again until our hands, black with dust, have nothing left to hold.
I reach into my bag for my own pencil. It was always there. We dance again.
The imaginot line is my emotional distance separated by time zones and Great Divides that only exists in my head; An excuse, not a true barrier. More of an unconfessed invitation. I want you to cross it.
1987/1999
Off the ice and in the warmth, by the fire; my head rings with a peal that remains to this day, unnoticeable by any but the wild dogs that roam the landscape of my thoughts. The inner voice speaks above it, but the inner voice speaks infrequently when you occupy that space. A tiny, precious thing, like a girl but with tired eyes, the way children cannot fake. Eyes racked with age. Eyes separated from mine by but an arm’s length.
Tag: Diacope