I just wanna let my feelings out. But I hear that’s not the wave. No one cares how you feel. Not even the ones you’re caring for. How drab? How melodramatic of me. You have to separate the impulse from the thoughtful. The thoughtful from the overthinking. The overthinking from the obsession. I hope none of this ever makes sense. I hope you worries are light and fluffy, like pancake derivatives before the maple shakedown. I just wanna be loved. Where’s the fun in that? Not an encapsulated caricature of presupposed cliches but a bubble of possibility retro fitted with the perfect balance of yes and no, right and wrong, honesty and truth, this and that. They tell me I’m a dreamer. I don’t put space between my paragraphs. They may be right. I use commas to separate angst-never pause. I’m the anomaly no one explores. I’m just the right amount of not good enough mixed with weigh too much and it gets heavy trying to be ok. To be hopeful. Maybe one day I’ll find the right relapse looking to get sober off my brand of moonshine. Late night confessions poured over a spiced misconceptions, no ice. I stopped telling myself I would forever be alone because lies don’t care who tell them. Some dies though I wonder. If I can’t let it be without asking too much, saying too much, wanting more than what’s given, then how can these feelings ever get caught? I’m rambling. 3 am and I hear the silence ringing off another curious night. Wondering what’s out there. Waiting for the wave to crash around the lone dingy approaching off the shore. Through the fog. Like a whisper I should hear loud and clear. 

In the distance. 

Cracked Open

Times too strange to just be walking up to unfamiliar homes, peeking in. But, that’s exactly what I did. I saw a light through the window and hesitantly, fearfully knocked. No reason, just curious. I had no expectations. Well, no good expectations. Funny how that works. You proceed, cautiously, looking for the bad you’re expecting because there’s no such thing as good until after it happens. But, I digress.

I heard a whisper. Maybe it was the wind. Even weirder, hope. But, I heard something. The door cracked open enough to see the split between light and dark. I swallowed hard. Not sure what I was doing here. No clue what I intended. But, here goes nothing.


Would you like company? Would you like to talk? Sit in silence? Reminisce over past mistakes? Future heartbreaks? Would you mind inviting me in so I don’t feel so weird about wanting to be there? Could we possibly talk about the light shining through your window? Just a candle in the wind to all these passerby but I see a beautiful silhouette making magnificent caricatures behind a locked door, bolted by time. And I don’t mean to pry, I swear I don’t. It’s just that I’m tired of walking these sidewalks looking for a glimmer of hope.

“How are you?”

Who are you? Where have you been? Where would you like to go? Can we get there together? It’s not my place or intent to intrude. I just thought you wouldn’t mind having someone close who you could count on. I don’t mean to impose. I don’t want to waste your time. I just don’t have the strength or intelligence not to follow my heart. And it led me here. To the light in the window, burning bright as a full spirit in wait for the next life. Phase in.

“Sorry to bother you.”

My mind does that: crosses up my signals and intercepts the messages. Tells me I should just go. Tells me I should hang my head, apologize for the intrusion, and make my way back to the sidewalk to wander in peace. Tells my insides to fill up on hot air and push all my desire out through my pores. Sweating away my interest. Vulnerability soaking in self-doubt, casting aside what I thought I knew. Misconstruing silent consideration for polite disgust. This is what happens when you see past the silhouette into the decorated heart of the home. When you see the accents that illuminate the soul and stand out as a one of a kind. When you’ve passed a thousand houses but none like this, with a glimmer so bright that even through the crack you can’t help but feel at home.

“What was I thinking,” as I turn to run and hide and hear the faintest invitation:

“Would you like to come inside?”

– iamdew ©2016