Mutable

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Life insists

on patience

but once I have arrived

at a destination

how can I be content

to wait outside?

 

My heart falters mid-air

clips the rim of the wastebasket

and falls to the floor

with an unsettling squelch.

She will leave a stain no doubt.

But isn’t that what we all want

to leave something behind

when we are gone

and haven’t the impulse

to make anything new?

 

I watch her sputter and turn.

Everything hurts,

your absence,

my disenfranchised life,

even the crescents

at the ends of my fingertips

from scraping so long

at the same intractable walls.

 

I am afraid of my life,

afraid of my heart 

because even on the outside

she has a knack for drawing me in.

The butterflies in my stomach

are made of wire.

They jab and tangle.

They perforate my insides

whenever they spread

their amature wings.

 

I don’t want to die

voluntarily incarcerated.

I don’t want to go

another moment

without knowing you.

The road between us

has yet to intersect but still

I love knowing that you are out there

savoring and scavenging

under the same mutable vault as I.

3 responses to “Mutable

  1. I love reading the title as “moo table.” As if we’re all just cows, come to the same “table” to “chew the cud.” 🙂

    I love this part:
    “even the crescents
    at the ends of my fingertips
    from scraping so long
    at the same intractable walls.”

    Also these:
    “The butterflies in my stomach
    are made of wire.
    They jab and tangle.
    They perforate my insides”

    What you did with that line break after “spread” was very clever, drawing all the meaning out of the word that you possibly could.

    “I don’t want to die
    voluntarily incarcerated.”

    Come to think of it, I guess the title could also be “mood able.”

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