I bit my lip a little too hard as my throat scratched out a single syllable lost in the phantom wind. My heart lifted up with arms decorating a cross to signify a jump in attitude; a jump in attitude filtered amongst my heart as it lifted up with arms decorating a signifying cross. Didn’t I see it? I memorized the little buttons lingering on your blouse. They were a mixture of blue and white plastic swirled like cotton candy at a church benefit. You said to me, “look at that painting.” I said, “yes.” You said, “if only we could outstretch our arms as if decorating a cross with Venus acting as the Virgin Mary overseeing every beautiful movement.” I glanced at the painting.
I made a reference to films as their fingers intertwined uplifting the wonderment of women. Cupid shot an arrow.
The pearly gates clattered.
I wrote in a lighter pen to hide the lightness behind it. Don’t you see the overpass of color in the dull world of a lifetime?
You are so different from me, but, maybe not, maybe not in this strange life. Maybe our lives collided in a strange mutation of sidewalks and chalk and life and good clothing. Is it better when I don’t use commas? Sometimes, the commas appear like a jump outstretched with arms on a cross. I haven’t done my reading for you. I hang on every word. You opened my eyes to dinosaurs and shrines as Neil Young played the harmonica. You opened my eyes, peeling them back like an onion with the different layers and skin diseases of walls to filter out emotion. You opened my eyes and I felt. I felt the grace of women. I felt a certain type of power unlike a god. I wanted to feel you: your heart against mine with vesicles and tubes intertwined like the lovers excavated in Pompeii.
I need an editor. I need a fresh cabinet. I need to alphabetize; your birth name follows mine but not by much.
Wanting seems to be the thing I do most with arms outstretched in the shape of a cross jumping out like a comma.