Grief Ain't Grey, It's Glory Pink

Little pink eyes. Little thrum of warm memory. How did we get this far from one point, matterless void? Explaining light years to a child is poetry. Or stories. Or it’s a way to remember that moment when you were more curious than afraid. Oh, let’s go, let’s just bash through and clack clack for streams running through the yard. For the wild look we gave each other in the night. For the glow on your face. That strange glow, great green of want, of joy up in the dark. I have the flashlight and you have to stop everything to look at me. Tapping nails on the rooftop, glancing down for a center. For finding my way in this tap tap pattern. For making music out of time. For shoving off when I could have sat still. I mean, I am supposed to sit here, right? Right? You coming for me? Not like you could find me stuck in the white of this dumb wall. But I will shout for you. I will holler and make it all known that I am wanting. I mean, want is to feel something, yeah? Better than standing in the numb robot void of totally whatever. These fingers have to move across this page, but they are not doing that, as we both know. In fact, whatever product you are reading now has gone through so many filter moments that there’s no way anything is anything but a machine ground down by the practices of patience and dying for love. Not the kind of love that sustains, mind you. You mind, I know you do, because you touch me where it hurts when I am weak, sliding down my seat with testing hands, finding me in my written fate. It looks like I had the chance to run, and instead I chose to buckle down and do more jail. Yeah, that’s the way of heroes: the jail of helping everyone instead of the freedom of the skies. Not that anybody needs help to die, but they do. They do. They need help to die and even to shit. They need fire and loss, too, so that things count. You put your little finger up against the wall, it feels rough but looks shiny. You go loose and figure a way forward, even if it’s wet with the grief of rain. The grey glory of grief makes us impenetrable to those who don’t have it. Baby pink and raw with loss makes us know we are more special than anyone in this moment. So everyone had better just fuck and steer clear.