Infinitesmal

---

I wish I could live through something.

I’m trying to fold truth from fiction like how we used to crook our fingers into

church spires, over and over, reaching inside for something hidden. you know

how it was, that tireless game. 

I remember when writing was burrowing for precious metals, searching

for something that winked when it caught the light, kaleidoscopic colours

in the fish-eyed lens of childhood, every action more consequential.

I wrote in oil, set my words on fire and told myself 

the whole world would read by my flame: quick lick of a spark,

burst of hot air, never look back—exhale.

I’m still grappling for words, still pretending to have a greater understanding of the universe

than everyone else, when really all I know is that today is a Wednesday, 

and life is just a one-take movie of todays and tomorrows that bleed 

into each other, too nauseating to look at except

from the corner of your eye.

sometimes, I still ache to be seen.

other days I want nothing more than to push the little boat of my body

gently out to sea, watch it fade into a pinprick from the shore. we are all

so small, and vigorously striving not to be, but isn’t it a relief?

these clumsy fingerprints are quickly covered by moss and scrubby earth,

winter will strip our memory to a carcass, and then—

nothing.

but I’m grateful for this small parcel of time. forget gemstones;

I’m trying to press the flowers that sneak between the pavestones.

let’s pause a while, cup an afternoon in our hands and watch it slip

through our fingers, nurturing what it is to feel powerless. 

today, I tried to picture all the particles of dust flocking

to form our bodies like starlings in murmurations. 

I feel so very small, and these words won’t mold to my will,

red-white-hot on the page. sincerity is hard to come by, even

in conversations with myself.

but here I am, 

and there you are,

and isn’t that something worth shouting about?

please, stay a while.