Friday, January 20, 2012

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Some days, I dream too much. And
though sleep is good for the soul,
the heart collects dust as it
pulsates on the ground against
the earth of your skin. Let your
fingers touch it lightly as if God were
creating Adam all over again—make it
feel holy! Content is not enough, it
wants to be alive, but the heart has
burned one too many cigarettes to
dream about the regret.

There are days where it
moans and bitches about the cold
but our feet only feel the sizzling
of the asphalt, knowing that it was no
hotter than it was yesterday. There
is so much dirt around it, growing
fierce with the grass and staring at
the sky’s belly, how it stretches for miles.

I wrote about the scars one day—they
were always like snow, disappearing
after the warm winters had set in. Those
cigarettes keep coming back, and it just takes
one more hit for the holiness to leave again. Sorrow
was never its anthem, but neither was Amazing Grace,
though when grace did come to comfort she left more
than a burning dove at the door step. The heart
has never earned the right to regret anything in its
life, nor even the right to sorrow. And Grace, the
heart only has a few visitation rights.

Grace came to visit, soothed it the
best she could before she left again. She
mixed words with songs, brought life back
again. Andas she vanished back into the soil, she left
on the doorstep another cigarette to burn out.