emma b. says

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Put a dollar into the machine

And spin.

Queen and Aces, jacks of spades, king of diamonds, good luck, bad luck, no luck at all, just a little chance, a room in Vegas wall-papered in fools gold. Iron pyrate. I learned that early growing up panning by the river in gold country. It's illusory and it floats. But it sure is shiny, there under the midsummer sun.

Just like everything else that isn't heavy enough or bolted down, floats to the surface, like oxygen or the belated truth.

Who wouldn't be beguiled by all those beautiful things leaking out of clouds and fissures, patched up by a little bit of lover's spit. A poor choice, a misguided notion made beautiful by a clumsy two step and a long kiss.

If it were only so. I spent Friday on the mountain, flying. I spent yesterday crying. Then I smoked a joint and watched Wall-E. I thought you weren't supposed to miss what you don't have, but I do, and I do. If only I weren't so completely terrified of casting the net, if I weren't so zealously guarding my heart. A guarded heart knows no love, an open heart breaks, nobody wins, unless by some fluke of willingness and timing and stars and the confluence of the moon it just happens. And it might, or it could. If you let it, or if you made it, if you let go, if you could let go.


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