Nice Work If You Can Get It

how tenuous,
these tethers wrapped around our wrists and ankles,
and yet how unforgiving--
the strands that have bound us loosely
have kept us from entirely floating away,
but we have chosen to body them, name them
books and borders.

i got lost somewhere between your jawline and your ear--
that curve your fingers brush past every time you tuck your hair behind your ear--
but only for a moment;

normally i tiptoe into eye contact,
silently padding from your shoulder to your chin,
carefully avoiding any downward glances to ease into your eyes.

but sometimes,
like this time,
that one curve catches me and i'm sure you notice my momentary hesitation
because you drop your eyes a little to find mine,
a smile hedging at one corner of your mouth-
i can't help but see that smile, it's right next to the jawline that caught me-
and i hope you haven't noticed.

but i so hope that you have.

my head is spinning at the number of beginnings,
so many ships leaving harbour,
setting sail.

i'm okay.
i distrust this feeling.
when did stability get to be so wrong?

our linear obsession with the one lane race toward death saps life from limb,
it's only rewards guilt's bitter aftertaste and a memory of something akin to regret.

we run trip tumble and throw ourselves at immortality only to gasp,
baffled when it splits and swallows us like the softest gauze.

i watched another sun sink into the haze of the delhi horizon,
warmed my hands on its glow and prayed for one more day in the depths of its heat.

because we always think that somehow this time it'll be different.

and sometimes it is.

we are memories,
pearls strung on sinew draped and woven over someone else's hands.
we finger each bead in passionate fits of nostalgia,
catching only our reflections in their shining whiteness
and hoping our teeth are strong enough to tear the tarnished from the lines.

look, if you pause long enough you can see which ones i've polished.
i've polished them for you.

give me to the storm
feet buried arms wide like i could hold it all
like i could stand against the ocean's dregs that ply at my calves
and let the wind suck the howl from my chest.

i will wash these dusty feet
- tired from steps and missteps -
and when they're clean enough,
i'll put them to bed.

because i so rarely see you cry.

and i can't say how proud i am of all you've become
without sounding like a greeting card.

here's to your beginning and to mine;
there is no length i won't go to to find you if you call.