end to end
i was all wrapped up and covered in crinkling sounds
my skin was sewn to musty, yellowed pages
(this was in my dream but i knew not that i was dreaming)
the pages were printed front and back with every hurtful word i’ve ever said
these words are my life sentence
and if i had not said them i would not understand love
and what is life but a trembling riddle of love?
i’ve paid for almost all of them now
(this i realized in the dream but i know now that it is not imaginary)
except a few, which are dog-eared
i watch them nervously
for the anticipation of sorrow is more crippling than the sorrow itself
my fingers hesitate to unfold the brittle corners
but soon remember that sorrow and joy are tied end to end
wound in the same spool
and that our skin is sewn delicately with both
it knows not when the thread has switched colors
the knot is too small to feel
and the needle dives in and out and back in again just the same
weaving us to words and to wonder
pulling us towards ends which we must hope never to find
(this i find more difficult to understand in the segmented structure of consciousness)