Conversations with someone other than myself……
I want to write your story. I watched as you threw your heart to the wind with your shoestrings attached. Granted the heart was made from red velvet, but it was not the shape of a child’s drawing; it was the identical shape and size to be found in anatomical books, the page pulsating when the book is closed. I listened for the message you created when your heart blew away, the laces the length of a giraffe’s tail.
Do you slice children with your eyes; mean eyes that reflect off the shine in your mind? It is this shine in your mind that keeps you vibrant. You are as vibrant as the black curls of my hair, as vibrant as the ray of sun you covet in your God box. I know that even mean people can have Gods.
Was it the dog that made you mean minded? Or did you get caught in the storm of shoppers on Black Friday? Crowds can have bad effects on people even though all you have to do is step sideways out the door to avoid the mad rush.
Which meat of the turkey do you like, white or dark?
Do you believe your heart can be saved? The shopping did take it out of you; pulled any gentleness right from your heel. You waited in long lines when all you wanted was a single candle stick for prayer. It was not the grocery store. There was no express line for fifteen items or less. And the woman ahead of you insisted on digging for change. You wanted to grab her purse and fling it to the ground. A couple of pennies may have rolled out.
I want to write your story. Know yourself, and you will know the universe. I am the stranger who holds your heart without one bloody thorn. I am the ghost who plagues shoppers with credit cards. I consume the world and the world pretends interest. I can live my spiritual truth while walking in the world. I offer you raspberries. I offer you milk. I offer you sugar. Tonight, there will be new bed sheets. Soft rather than crisp; they will mold to your body. Your alarm clock is set for six a.m. Your story begins with a flutter of your lashes as you awake.