key + arrow

a life + style blog

A thousand hands.

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Photo by Andy Davidhazy

Sometimes I think cleaning out my closet

would help —

tossing everything with pattern —

anything that has gone

untouched

for at least

a year —

that’s what the experts say,

but the experts are only

flawed humans

just like me.

I’d get rid of anything

that ever reminded me of something;

and my life will be made of only

solids

from now on.

My closet is full of clothing

always begging me to get rid of the few

colorful pieces

remaining that go untouched,

yet I have difficulty stuffing them into bags

made by people

who make

mistakes, too.

It would look so

tidy —

perfect.

There are too many piles of

maybe

taking up space.

Lately I’ve been thinking it would

also make it so much easier

for me to leave what’s left

behind

and fall in love with

places and things that don’t have beating

hearts,

but for some reason

those neglected

keep risking their lives for me

jumping out of moving cars again,

laughing at things like they are nothing —

arachnid threads gripping webs

making new homes in the corners of my

apartment —

and also —

wearing my hair up makes me feel light —

simple —

nothing on my shoulders.

I’ll tame those wild

hairs;

they only get me into trouble

anyway.

Men tell me

my hair reminds them that they’ve just made me brunch

and sent me on my way

with blushed, full cheeks

from their fear of vulnerability

that escaped them momentarily,

and for some reason,

they like it

momentarily,

and I like it

momentarily.

If I got rid of everything I wanted

and kept only the

necessities

and kept my hair held tight

in rubber

bands,

life would feel much lighter

and romance would fit inside a

plastic bag,

too.

There are only a few colorful remaining pieces left;

there’s plenty of room,

make yourself

at home,

Love.

 

However, Love might not feel comfortable doing that

because feeling is only a guest,

and

speaking of — I won’t carry

through with any curation

of my closet

because a thousand hands

have molded my shedding skin.

Whomever wants the unedited version

gets all of me

instead of just

the vessels that

feed

you smiles

and happy times —

lakes full again after long droughts that went unseen

and kind, handwritten letters

(No one ever writes those anymore; I’ll hold on to those for us),

and vibrant untouched

plates at fancy

yet unpretentious restaurants —

Untouched

except for the

filtered.

Though, I’ve been touched by a thousand

hands

with affection

tightened

slipping thumbs

pushed

holding my face

in my hair

dragging my ankles

holding my shoulders still

small of my back

scratching my skin

waving goodbye —

not all of them

are holding hands in a multi-

cultural

photogenic

opportunity to show

the world a pretense

of perfection that makes us only

seem unobtainable,

not relatable,

but for some reason

desired by so many

who forget

to protect the few pieces remaining

in their closet

with color

and remind us

of the waves goodbye

that led to pressing into

that part of my chest that makes me feel so

protected

and loved fully

for the first time

each time

over

and

over again

until

those same hands wave

goodbye

again or

until they don’t.

 

 

I’ve learned it’s hard

to trust someone

in black and white

crisp clean

feeds.

I prefer a life

where

clutter

is colorful foliage

raked into

the dirt

because it’s there too.

What do you think the foliage will turn into

when it’s decomposed?

It was once beautiful,

but when it disappears,

it’s only

turning

into something else that still loves

you,

that still laughs at itself,

that still confidently self-depricates, never crossing the fine line,

to make you think adorable thoughts

and watch idealistic rom-coms,

and still places ice cubes into her lover’s waist band —

but you know what?

Those ice-cubes turned into something else, too.

Things melt,

and someday I’ll smile at you again

like I did that day,

like nothing ever changes.

Happiness isn’t a condition set

to the day we realize

comfort comes in waves.

Understanding someone fully —

crisp and clean

with a few colorful,

lingering

pieces

in between the darks,

are desire,

fear, discomfort

and love in a meeting

that end in a successful merge.

Happiness sits in the molecules

shifting

into solids and liquids,

never disappearing but

moving on.

 

 

 

Author: lauren

author of // key + arrow // a life + style blog aiming to inspire readers to make the most of what they have today without compromising quality or settling for less than desired {all the while convincing herself} // {austin, tx}

3 thoughts on “A thousand hands.

  1. Amazing, you have some talent!

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