11 October 2017

Postcard 103

It's damn hard this. 
And you think you might know, though of course you don't.
As it turns out you don't know. You didnt, couldn't. 
And have you ever drawn your long fingers lightly over a row of well read books in a bookstore in a strange town, smelling through your finger nerves, and thought 'this!'? 
And have you ever lifted magically homebound, a bundle of memories all yours from your stale aired fellow passengers, and the thick air shudders threat and you thought and felt 'This! this is it'?  
And have you ever been mother held, a grown man awkward in strong arms weak you know so well, and felt 'this is it. It's this!'? 
And have you ever captured stranger's secret smile, an origamied future folded up in a float away moment and know damn well wrongly 'this!'? 
A moment later you thought you knew but of course you didnt, couldn't. 
A feather's edge this this as lost as breath. 
And have you ever felt your mind slide out from under you and curse and wonder just what it is you've gathered up, what you thought you could know but of course could not. 
And have you ever held on for dear life terrified and sobbed and wondered 'This? It's too damned hard.'

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