On a Saturday, seated.
i am watching the others, and they are dancing.
They move with grace across the shining wood, and in the mirrors lining the room i see them.
i am seated, trying my best not to crack and spill.
“What is missing, and why?”
Like the answer will just appear, after all these years.
my feet are stones, my legs long branches to sweep dust from the floor.
i try and i try to sing, but i often just gurgle and sometimes nothing comes out at all.
i could be anywhere, other than here.
i could be with anyone, other than You.
i would learn to string fire, like a fine thread or glowing golden yarn.
i would pave water underfoot, not sinking slowly or rising to meet.
i would move air around wings, feathered rows or otherwise unadorned.
i would send the Earth above and the great moon below, glowing or empty.
To feel, whatever it is that they feel.
To see, whatever it is that they see.
To be, whatever it is that they are, that i am not.