Of Dimes and Dozens

My entire life has been about identity.

Recognizing one. Sustaining one. Not letting one go running off into the shadowy night, never to return. Of tenderly loving one. Viciously protecting one. Keeping one private. Exploding one onto the scene. Letting one evolve without much guidance. Carefully sculpting one.

In all the years I've lived, I never knew how important and incredibly liberating "knowing thyself" would be... until now. Time has passed, songs have played, artwork has been created, careers have come and gone, and memories have overflowed this ornate goblet of my life and saturated every inch of my being with gratitude.

Our identities, so masked by our insecurities as to disfigure them, are precious and constantly morphing... twisting and turning, fitting in everywhere and never fitting anywhere. Who we are, constantly bouncing off of color and light and those we love and those who frighten us into retreat.

Today, I am not sick, but I will be tomorrow. Today, I am generous, but tomorrow I am selfish. Today I am crying, but tomorrow I am rejoicing. Evaporation, condensation, precipitation, accumulation... and it repeats. And our souls are the cycle of the sun. Identity, cradled ever so gently today... will tomorrow be thrust into the space between myself and the stars, and where it is deposited will send quakes through the universe.

I know who I am, because I know who you are. I know it will all go crumbling before it is built again, because I saw you fall apart just before you became the beautiful and powerful being that you are today. I am so proud of you, so proud of me... so proud of how far we have come despite tripping over those ripples as they ricochet off the heavens. We go tumbling in, and gracefully acknowledge the shifting cells as they sparkle and transform.

Goods, Not of the Damaged Sort

Eugene, come home soon. I miss you, and our late night escapes into oblivion. My need of adventure is escalating. Let's fly to that little village that has the antique shop where we once discovered your likeness emblazoned on a leather-bound book. You scoffed at the sight, but I buried it beneath some silk scarves so that we might come back someday and search its pages for an answer to the mystery of our union. The shopkeeper made us tea, remember? Your leaves told of imminent fortune, and I was jealous. My leaves jumped out of the cup and fled the scene.

Come back soon, Eugene. My heart flies with you.

Five Minutes

I will give you five minutes to tell me a story.

Five minutes only.

Five minutes to tell me about glory and gain. Five minutes to tell me about anguish. Five minutes to weave a tale of adventure and intrigue. About how your heart is broken and you need comfort. To tell me how you feel like you can't ever be truly yourself around anyone. To look in my eyes and call my tears bluff, to string heavy curtains over your heart, to quickly cover your tracks, to climb anxiously over the walls... to thrill me.

Five minutes, and then I am calling it quits. Five minutes, and then you will be chased out with torches and chanting hordes. Five minutes before the fiery multitudes descend, and the light dissolves your skin into a memory I never wanted to have.

Five minutes, and then it's over.

That's what I said twenty years ago.

But here you are... a shadowy secret in the constant replay of my transgressions.

Telling a story that just won't die.