Night Obscure

This is something a bit older but I wanted to share it again


You are up all night, a slither of recognition in your eyes as I walk past on my way to the kitchen, dry mouth and something refusing to stay quiet in my throat forcing me from the warmth of the winter bed, orange juice and a drop of gin. I hear exhaustion in your voice. You speak to the city facing window. Lights streaked with melting snow in your vision, a silent striking, exploding collision of uniqueness on fired sand, complete obliteration. You tell of places you have been, wonders you have imagined, chaotic tales of people and things outside my understanding or description. A dreamlike, dream of consciousness.

I feel something like jealousy.

Some things about you are beyond me: The curve of your calf, rising, or fingers on your right hand pulling down the collar of a red dress, a gentle tugging and an exaggerated rise of your neck, exposing places my lips have wandered alert and startled, unforgettable moments in dark places. I have felt myself street wandering, your arm around me, pulling off the rhythm of walking, making every step a conscious choice. Your word like whispers, followed by choices you would have already made, already repented for, still ready to choose again; and I cannot help but wonder if these were fantasies, desires of a fractured heart, to be this close to you. But I am here, in this room, the storm softly outside and you are here, sleepless on the sofa, your life unfolding in your head like too much weight, piles of blankets that once kept you warm but now threaten to smother you. This is what it is to be powerless.

Other things I understand completely: The way you count backwards from seven before you speak out of anger. When you told me you had to stop yourself, the blueness in your eyes turning hot with determination. Times when you have danced with your shadow tugging at your heels and you have beaten it down with pure force of will. How you stand up now with the gray morning sky, breathe deeply, taking all your strength around you like a shroud and turn to me, still a little broken but completely unafraid.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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