It is an old, wet photograph

A photo carefully blotted dry–– although its colors had already bled

I gently set the photo aside,

I know I’ll never return to contemplate a photo which I cannot understand

 

It is a tattered, rusty bicycle

A bike that had succumbed to the harsh elements while lying forgotten in a shanty

I place the bike inside the garage,

The bike will require expert care before I will be able to ride it again

 

It is a frantic phone call

A phone call that causes fingers to fumble while desperately jabbing the dial pad

I put the phone to my ear

The dial tone sounds endlessly because I never pressed the call button

 

It is cheeks blushing bright pink

Cheeks immediately clutched at by hands concealing a secret

I press my palms flat

The heat of my cheeks permeates my palm with an uncanny intensity

 

It is the vivid fire of my best friend’s hair

Hair that dances with her every step as she scans the crowd intently

I duck my head

Her hair beckons once more, but I know the day is too terrible to try

 

It is pale fingers fumbling with a watch

Fingers that carefully count each tick of the clock with a tap of the chair

I wipe away a tear

My fingers already know that being included involves reaching out

 

It is red-hot anger

An anger which could be better described as self-loathing

I ball up my fists

The anger disappears back into my heart as quickly as it had appeared

 

It is a fragile heart

A heart that tries earnestly to communicate with the brain

I ignore this heart

A heart filled with emotions in a person unwilling to properly experience them

 

 

 

 

 

It is an antique grandfather clock

A clock that ticks on–– counting each second that passes

I’m losing hope

Even a clock knows that times runs out

 

It is dark clouds

Clouds rolling in alongside a category five hurricane

The clouds darken my heart

The storm drowns me in rolling, thrashing waves until I wilt beneath the force