by c.

all i want today is to pick up a pen and write to someone i like.  write anything, doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s guided by tender impulse and meant for an ardent ear.  alas, to whom would i send it?  gmail is blinking at me; the to: slot remains sadly blank.  sadness enshrouds middle age.  i used to scoff at people like me.  scoffing—something else my health demands i give up.

this is the particular shade of desire that colors my days: the desire to settle my thoughts on the memory of a beloved face—one still alive, one that still remembers me, one, indeed, that still likes me… beauty, age, gender, are all peripheral details to this central desire.

across all my experience, everyone i’ve ever met and cared for, is there nobody today whose fond hello would stop me in mid-step, make my heart skip a beat, elicit a genuine smile in the midst of this daily posturing we call life?  even my posturing is slumping on days like today.  who cares about being highly paid?  who cares about ostensibly working for the good guys?  i just want to sit in the sun, holding the hand of this desired one, speaking not a word.