A garden of muses

Sound of an empty room

I wish my heart were idle and abiding,
ALL week it has been flailing wildly,
slapping its sides against my chest
like an angry fish on a ship deck
trying to appeal to its captor through this convulsive hysteria.
I want to say something in the way of an apology or small assurance,
but I have never been at such a loss for even the concept
as I’m writing this.

Her voice was low, folded up into a tone
that made me think of crossed arms and her face in a set frown
I would never care to see, let alone cause.
It made my nerves limp and my heart pale.
It was as if she was prepared for what I was going to say
and couldn’t argue, so I went forward,
with a protest that couldn’t be aired.
Plodding with a moral sense that felt more like a diving board,
even the words from my mouth seemed thrown
as if meant to fool some closed audience
waiting for my lips to move.
I meant to say so much more,
I meant to be reasonable and explain,
but I became emotional and had to hang up,
as if I wasn’t allowed to feel so much before knowing she felt the same.

We’ve both had a chance now to say our peace
and leave the terms in a place that can be salvaged later,
but I am not comforted by them.
I don’t want to be consoled or force fed advice.
I won’t hear that it’s okay or alright.
Just for awhile, I want it to eat me alive,
so I will know better and catch it a little sooner, next time.
I need to have learned from my mistakes,
but I am far too fragile to be so righteous
and who the hell can distinguish mistake from fortune
before the opportunity for exchange has passed?
I am dizzy from my mind’s ill tendency to overanalyze
and infuse fiction with the nuisance of facts.
I’m not interested in closure.
Every minute I am alone with my thoughts,
all I want to do, is take it back.