there are things we just don't talk about. recollections kept vague, with fingers tapping. darkness at arm's length, ticking like a clock. moments that itch, crawling like slippery little spiders, tickling bare skin with tiny points of syringe-like legs, tripping merrily through a maze of fine hairs that sway and arc. hairs that hold history like an ancient oak tree. like a crime scene.
a soft longing chuckle echoes through these secrets.
a staccato exhale. similar in spirit to a light hacking cough, punctuating wavy graveled memories with thoughts of specific significant breaths, old ones, predecessors to this predictable pattern of taking in air. and releasing. and again. time passing. those were the days. when breathing was breathing. when taking a breath was really taking a breath.
this repetitive hacking laugh. a sculpture. in a glass enclosure. safely stored in a small obscure museum. free to see on first thursdays. a whittling. an evolution left ostentatiously unrealized. truncated. incomplete. a haunting reminder, for strangers to stand around and stare at. then move on. from the aftermath. the laugh. unplugged from any forward-minded logic that might allow it to reverberate. to resonate. to be remembered for more than just a spray of spit from flapping aging lips. intent yet directionless.
this is the drift. the chaos.
this is the sound of a child who got locked in a cabinet somewhere along the way. still there. into adulthood. pressed against the door. listening to a happy home. no faces. a turn of the knob from outside leaves an upended vessel, spilled, vented, emptied unexpectedly by a ravenous infestation of subtle smile and sarcastic afterthought. at least this is the theory from inside the door.
this is the laugh.
stumble. emerge. after. hold a hand up to the light. look around at all the impossible moonlit promises ever made, lined up, like they're waiting for a bus, forgotten in the warmth of an early afternoon sun. promises to yourself. to others. but not really. never really. to yourself. where is that bus? forgotten. but not. memories are tough. thick. resilient. plentiful. unabashed. humid. detestable. sensual. savory. resolute. unpredictable. but today, this instance of spontaneous reverie, this flavor of first thursday regret, is similar to that of a warm chocolate chip cookie. a sip of coffee.
there are things we just don't talk about. especially not to anyone soothing or regular or close.
there are things we just don't talk about.
at least not with our mouths.