The Air

All poetry aside, the world is painful this week.  This week I woke up every day with a solid look glaring out the window angrily trying to find at least one cloud to hang onto, one flower to absorb my attention, one leaf to help float me to a better place.

I don't understand this autumn mood that set in so wearily, drafting down over my shoulders, weighing my head down so I only look at the floor now.

You are on the other side of the planet and all that I think of is you.  The sound of your voice last night, gently trickling through the phone, gliding into my warm ears.  I miss the smell of you and your gentle touch.  The eyes you so firmly brought to the side, the teeth you gritted, and the way you held me on the right as we walked down the road.

I miss it all.  The fish floating down our tongues and the salty water coming closer and closer to our summertime toes, sand sneaking its way into every crevice.

And what do I have here?  Not much of anything.  I see in a candlelit living room, the sound of the fan filling up the atmosphere with everything, because that's everything.  That droning sound of the blades running counter clockwise as they try to escape something.  That's all that I have here.

I have the air.