middle ground of rot and rest

There is always a difference between content and waiting,

but it is the kind of difference that can only be seen from far away.

Up close, both are quiet. Up close, both look like water that does not move.

The days do not pass so much as stack.

Stacking until they lean,

until they tilt in a way that feels dangerous but never falls. Almost. A bit too much of an almost.

A dangerous balance is still balance,

and it begins to feel like safety after a while.

The body gets used to it,

to standing in the same place,

to breathing the same air over and over until it goes stale.

There was a time when wanting was sharp and hunger had an edge to it.

Where it taste like young, endless moments of freedom.

There were lists of hopes and late-night talks and mouths naming everything they could not reach yet.

What was named became holy,

and what was holy was chased until someone caught it or it crumbling apart in the chase.

But that sharpness dulled.

It dulled so slowly that no one noticed until there was nothing left to name,

and the mouths shut closed without realizing they were closing.

And the new wanting does not feel holy.

It feels unfamiliar,

like holding a tool without knowing how it works and what it is for.

Like a word in a language half-forgotten.

Something is missing in the wanting now,

something that was once easy to find. Familiar.

There are no lists anymore.

There are only quiet days,

stacking and tilting,

and the question of whether this is peace

or simply the absence of movement. 

Once, the ashtray by the back steps was always crowded.

Someone laughing, someone lighting up, someone swearing at the match that wouldn’t catch.

The ash built up in little gray mountains and someone swore it wasn’t temporary.

They would quit soon enough,

or maybe they wouldn’t.

It didn’t matter.

There was fire every night and the fire meant something. Anything.

Now, the ashtray is empty. The matches are gone. 

And someone keeps a lighter in their pocket whatever the hell for.

Maybe not for use, but for proof.

Proofing that it can still exist,

proof that destruction is still possible if it is ever needed.

A talisman of burning kept close to the body.

Old habits do not always die,

sometimes they just go quiet and floating inside of your very mortal vessel.

There are nights when the lighter is touched for no reason at all.

When it is held in the palm like a promise, like a hush prayer inside of a church.

The weight of it is familiar.

The warmth of it could be imagined if the thumb struck down on the wheel, but not enough for the strike to come.

The lighter only rests,

and it is enough for now.

Once, there's a granted wish for a boulevard to burn.

It burned so brightly that even those who had stopped believing in fire

stood and watched in awe.

The street cracked open,

and the air was full of smoke and voices shouting above the roar.

When morning came,

they sifted through the rubble as though peace might be hidden there,

like treasure buried beneath ash.

But there wasn't. 

The street was rebuilt, the smoke faded,

but the smell lingered.

Years later, the smell lingers still,

sharp and sour on nights when the air is too heavy to move.

No one speaks of it now,

but everyone knows. Someone knows.

The body cannot tell the difference between safety and stagnation when it has been still for too long.

It thinks stillness is shelter.

It thinks the silence is calm.

But there are moments; brief, bitter moments,

when the truth shows through.

When the heart remembers what it felt like to ache and kick and hunger.

When the lungs remember what it was to breathe smoke and rain at the same time.

These moments pass in no time but they leave a residue behind.

An understanding that cannot be scrubbed away.

The coffee cups on the table has not been moved for weeks.

Not full, not empty.

It simply sits there, proof of something unchanging.

Each day the light touches it differently,

but it does not change.

The hand that could drink it does not reach out, the mouth that could spill it does not open.

It stays.

And staying begins to feel like meaning,

though no one would dare say it aloud.

The lighter stays in the pocket.

The cups stays on the table.

The days stack and tilt and do not fall.

The air holds the smell of a fire that burned years ago and never fully went out.

A question was asked, “is this what content is?”

the answer is might be yes.

It is easier than explaining that joy is no longer the point,

That joy feels too sharp to be safe,

and grief feels too heavy to hold,

and so there is only this;

a body floating in cold water,

still and unclaimed.

Not sinking, not swimming, just floating.