When It’s All Compiled

Made a kite today. It was like I was six years old again. Playing with Papa on the Park Strip… Asking way too many questions… Struggling to keep up with his long legs.
The air smelled different this time. Maybe it was just that it was familiar… like when you hear a song that you haven’t heard in years… It’s still amazing, but without that crisp, fresh excitement that you only get the first time.
Like when I kissed a girl. I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea it would be that soft, and natural… So much so that the experience is seared into my memory… But, I can’t tell if its the amazing softness that I was surprised by, or the fact that I was able to be so caught off guard.
Like when you hurt someone more than you ever imagined you could… and more than you imagined they could be hurt.
Crests and troughs that leave stretch marks in your dough.
I didn’t fly it. I just enjoyed the smell.

I put my fingers up to my nose and enjoyed the smell. Glue. Plastic. Twine and wood. Familiar and not missed, but comforting still. I wore a blanket.
The supplements don’t carry me as far. I still catch a chill more easily than I used to. My skin isn’t what it once was. My teeth aren’t as white. My eyes as bright.
Soon it will be time to turn inward.
Examine the ridges of my grooves and the ruts I dug on either side, trying to run over and being tossed back in. Collect and compare the doilies that I’ve become. Record the bows and the knots. Look at them.
When it’s all compiled.
A vicious bunion bearing down on the remainder. A slipping sheet of scab that reveals wetness and that bright electric pain. Chronic and acute, left then right, relentlessly pummeling.
She wore a tasteful sweater and brown pants. Her glasses were thick with black frames. She smelled amazing.
I asked if I could fist her. Without a blink she changed a shade lighter, breathed calmly and cracked a smirk. She pulled an eraser from her bag and put it into my pocket before walking away.
It’s as if a clean wind poured into me. Drowning my pulse. I couldn’t figure out if I should remain or try something else. I was stuck.
Stuck. Staring. Fumbling. Farting.
I turned and shuffled my feet. Palmed the eraser in my pocket against my leg. I curdled and waned. Her gesture was too confusing… How is the string entered Howard’s chest table?

