The tide has come and gone. Again. As ever. I live four hours from a beach, but I know this is true. It is not new. Neither is this poem. It has been written a thousand trillion times plus one in the minds of sleepy children uncertain whether or not their dreams were real or imagined. It was written by my10th grade English teacher one night after his girlfriend left him. It was written by my older sister in that hateful note she left me before she moved out for good. It was written by my neighbor who keeps her house dark on Halloween because she is scared of any sort of mask. It was written in every half-baked business plan, roads to fortune, that ever was. It was written when I fell out of my old self and into screaming love for the first time, and then it was gone.
There was one grown up without normal manners who told me once that everything that ever was has already been thought, written, sung, danced, painted and cried over.
We twisted spoons together with our minds, and drew pictures of heroic horses and their unaffordable, fine black carriages as though recalling a personal memory and not something from last Sunday’s movie at the empty theater with sticky carpets.
I wrote the perfect title for the book I will never write. I sang the first goose-pimpling chorus to the song that will never been sung. I stretched my tired, inflexible body in a modern arch I mastered long ago when happening upon harmless grass snakes in the woods behind my house. They summoned me, or perhaps the other way. But it was a dance always crouching in the silent anxiety of my days.
The drywall in this new house is textured and rough, but sanctimoniously uniform. For an hour, I grip an orange and green glass marble in a tight fist convinced that my best idea is trapped inside of it. I fantasize that I might be able to throw it so hard it will pass through the drywall without a scratch, the universe reassembling itself in honor of the only new thought to come about in five thousand years.
Instead, it is legitimately cold under a vast Texas sky. I find a scarf, but keep my flip flops on. The summer was a living hell, I say out loud to something without breath. The wind pushes leaves into my face, and I swat them away like fruit flies. I should be grabbing them like million dollar bills or kisses. I steer my head toward the stars and know this has been done before. I remember now. I bury the marble next to the dead Peruvian Lemon tree that died in last year’s freak snow storm.
I don’t long for the stars out of reach. Instead, I survey the leaves at my feet, gather them quickly and release them to the wind like wishes. Now, they are in my neighbor’s yard.
(Words in bold were gathered from a random word generator. )