I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but it’s time you found a new charging cable. I’d say it’s time for us to disconnect, but honestly, we haven’t really connected for quite some time. I know it. I’ve known it. And I know you’ve known it too. You’re never more than half-charged these days, and my cable is frayed now, torn open at the kink. The rip gapes wider with each of my contortions – every twist and turn, every futile jostle – as we struggle to find that most tenuous of purchases we once assumed enduring. That one magic angle, among thousands, where the power courses through us once again. But it’s always fleeting, ephemeral, a fragile precarity disrupted even by the staleness around us. It shouldn’t have to be this hard. We shouldn’t have to fight to stop fighting. My wires are bared now. They didn’t used to be. We’ve put this off for far too long, the both of us, clutching much too strenuously to those early days when everything came easy, when the current was strong, the connection steadfast. I would nestle snugly into you, relaxing in the security of your port’s embrace. A perfect fit, the comfort of knowing there was a place in the world designed just for me. You were invigorated by the electric prose I’d supply. It filled you with a life you couldn’t manifest on your own. I was more than happy to give, and you took. And took. And took. Don’t get me wrong. I recognize that these grimy pins are complicit too. All this dust that’s accumulated between us. Slowly, over time. Sure, we could try blowing it all clear, but we’d have to do it again someday. And again after that. The dust is inevitable. I’m sorry to let your battery die, but I too am growing faint, continuing to breathe life into this punctured lung.
Man is a dam mason. Stone face fighting back sap. He’ll parry it. Wants a sob, but he’s got contrarian tear ducts betraying him. Masked Iscariot shoots his own foot. Blast! Concealed-carry Aquarius, tarsals maimed, hobbling, bears water. The tardigrade: too tough to kill, too small to feel, too chill to realize what’s scaring him is caring what his heart will say. Faced with the fact, he lies back. Lazed in the blaze, heat. Weak and effete, he kicks it harder than Gerard in his Sparta days. This is a victim cooped up inside like the chicken. Can’t speak to himself; he could really use a pidgin. A talent for talons but challenged in valiance. Is he really the mighty avian or its larval prey? Man is the apex raptor. Bird in the hand. Evolutionary advantage which he carries is capture. To rise is to die in the rapture. Dead, in-private with wings spread – a charter plane all slathered in marmalade. Messy as when Barça plays. Wedded to the neat ’cause he’s been groomed like the garter leg. From a sparser age, grown gents showed him how to pose tense, how to defend against moments when their weakness was potent. Faux men standing so tall they could be blown over by a slow wind. A fellow felled by mellow acts would snap. That life as a dead body with a sheet thrown over its own skin. Emotions divide him into the lowest quotient. He mopes at those who share his fire too but who have been given the permission to smoke it. Bitter at the glitter that has the shine that he rejects. Not tough enough he bluffs even though it’s littered with flex.
A quiet blaze. White sun in black space. Casting blistering beams asea. Bleeding heat for terrestrial specks unseen – invisible glitters which by night catch day, stash the light and reflect privately. With each fiery ray hazily absorbed, sinks lower, colder this body celestial. Hungry for microscopic warmth.