dancing fingers.

I come home, after days spent away, where time could be cast off into a place void of purpose. She heard me say to him that this was home. She looked confused—confused by her own grounding compared to my fleeting nature. She did not know that within my words, I wondered how—how it could be considered home. I resist reason, finding there may not be one or just one. On the car ride in, I watched rain pierce my surrounding state. Drops kept their balance on the shoulders of my coat, but falling from the corners of my eyes was a product of my present being that could not stay still. I wrote on the edge of my mind something to remember: “The weather made me do it.” And I cried with the sky, while traveling away from my house and toward my home. “I feel like my self is being stretched across states, separated by distance so I remain nowhere specific.”

My door opens and I enter an emptied room that use to be my own. Now it is only a collapsed bed between walls tinged rose. My belongings have been cleared out and with that, my character. I am assured this is good news—a chance to reinvent myself, to fall beneath a different pocket of rest, to wake and see myself differently, staring ahead. I get started immediately, despising how fragmented I feel. And stepping back from my design, while speaking to my sister, my voice jokes, This room is not meant for single sleeping. But I am not joking. “I cannot believe what a sexual being you are,” she tells me. “I worry that you depend on romance.” My work depends on romance and I do not want to stop working, I correct her. “Well you need to change that. It is esoteric.” I hear her, but have trouble taking her in, knowing she openly confesses she has not experienced love and its ability to empower your interior—an effect caused by the world falling away (we need nothing but small bites of each other to survive).

Our discourse stops, so I have spaces of silence to wonder what else there is after the self, the other, a stage, a performance, scenes and quotes we remember each other by. I do not know what I will write about during the coming time. I worry I have nothing. I worry this even when I am writing. But whenever I worry that I am situated upon nothing substantial to say—that I have not experienced a sensationalized scene to reinvent and reveal—something comes, something that surprises me and shocks my fingers into an impressionable dance of script.

There is a dialogue, in the way we move, to be heard. I do not take nuances for granted.