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Pulse

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I feel my pulse in my hand
. . . .
I wish it was yours
Your fingers in the space between my fingers
I want it more than breathing, living
I want it for the future of my vision of humanity
My stupid belief that everything can be okay
And will be okay
Even though we all know things change, everyday
Slowly the air forms between us, our bodies
Becoming separate beings
Separate souls
For I always knew my soul couldn't combine with someone else's
My soul has holes, ripped like an old t-shirt
With rose paint and morning eyes
Vines like ivy, reaching
Clinging to spirits unknown and unheard of
My soul has rain puddles filled with tears
Of lost fantasies and expectations
On the sidewalk in front of an old furniture warehouse in the city
With "for lease" signs stuck on the dirty glass
It's spewing cities and late night phone calls and street lights and
Acoustic guitar sessions played in old bars that
Stranger visit to escape from other strangers
It has people and faces and names
Of doctors, lawyers, bankers
Of unhappy people and their black shoes
Walking onto buses at three in the afternoon
My soul has melodies, cigarette smoke
and a small trinket box housed up in a little girl's room
It's full of everything and nothing
the universe and space
and black holes
even though I've always been afraid that's how we'll all die someday
although I'm hoping the sun will explode
for I'd rather die in light than in
dark.





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