What I Should Have Said
Let’s say you’re in a car accident. Let’s say you didn’t see the stoplight,
let’s say the windshield collapses on your face, let’s say
you become past tense, your energy
dissipates throughout the universe like scattering petals on a rain soaked flower.
Let’s say all the buds gather under the leaf. The world is unfurled beneath us if only
we had the language to understand. Look what beauty the sky makes–then takes
away. Now we’re heading to the bridge where you and I are asleep in blankets on
the backseat of a car and it’s not real so we’re naked and beautiful
of course. I have little defense against all this paradox
but I hope every day when you wake up with your head against the pillow you see
the miracle whispering down from the clouds. Let’s just say
you and I are driving in a car and we’re headed towards a mountain somewhere in
New England and we’re smoking a joint I rolled, we’re listening to a mix tape I made,
and you interpret these gestures as the love that demands we whirl like
bioluminescent fish, resonating with their environment. Let’s just say love didn’t
make you feel guilty or think of hungry children in Darfur, okay? We’ll just say
you didn’t see the stoplight.
Comment
Gorgeous.