I hit a wall with you today.
Your foot, snug between the door and frame, spills shadows in my room. Your words slip out serving cold conversation like, “Remember when…”
I wish you entered my room juggling accomplishments or kicking off bad workdays like a hacky sac.
Instead you barge in with a puzzled expression one piece short of a smile.
Your hip pushes the door open. It squeals. We make eye contact. The door is still squealing. Or maybe it’s screaming, “Go the fuck away!” I wish I were as confident as my door.
I lean up against the wall and watch you slouch at my desk. I imagine any insecurity of yours manifesting as miniature vultures landing and taking off from your neck, as your shoulders sag forward.
Real life is so fucking heavy for you.
I wish those vultures would use their talons to pick you up and throw you into the hall. The squealing door shutting behind you would be a perfect ending.
I let the conversation spin the same subject like a carousel.
The carousel has shifted into reverse, but the ceramic horses are facing forward. You saddle up on the old black stallion, with his mane behind you, because you trust where life takes you.
I feel so nauseous. I want to jump off, but the wind keeps whipping, whipping – another wall I keep hitting, hitting.
“So,” you say.
The carousel comes to a squealing stop. “Get the fuck off,” it’s screaming.
“What’s new with you?”
The wall jabs back. The door squeals, almost moans.
You fix your posture and lean back in the chair.
The wall shoves me off and pushes me towards the door. I trip and fall to my knees. You fall to the ground too and grab my hands. Your touch is cold but familiar. We make eye contact and the carousel starts up again.
I think I hit a wall with you today, but now that we are on the same level, I feel so grounded with you.
The door sighs closed. The wall pockets its punches.
“Tomorrow will be better.”