She

She runs through my mind like a saw blade,
cutting up lyrical thoughts of prose
into short outbursts of vulgarity.
She was never truly mine,
but this does not stop me from seeking her out;
sometimes overtly and sometimes with restraint.
She is not beautiful, for the word beautiful
carries too much an air of cliche.
She is vital, and she is flawed.

We are all flawed,
and this lesson I learned painfully.
It taught me a lesson I would not soon forget.

Despite how often I try to play it cool,
when I am with her
(when I am so blessed to be near her)
I suspect she knows exactly how I feel
about her. Let's not call it love.
Let's call it, at least, mild rapture.
This both terrifies me and exhilarates me.
I miss her, for she is so far away:
geographically, psychologically, physically,
but still within eye's snatch of a screen shot.
She is both a woman and a kinetic starburst
to me.

She has a favorite book that I do not like,
even though I tried to read it
before I had ever met her.
I tried to read it again. I still do not like it.
Some thing about Brit Lit doesn't fit me.

She has a more interesting occupation
than I do. I pay attention to that
because it is always genuinely interesting
to hear about. It is a way to get a glimpse
of someone's life; how they are living.
It is why I like singer-songwriters.
It can be like hearing a Neil Young
or Elliot Smith or Tori Amos
or Bruce Springsteen...
this could go on for awhile,
so I'll cut to the chase...
Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan song.

I want her to see the movie
The Red Shoes, directed by Emeric Pressburger.
I want to see her face as she watches
the final dance sequence.

I don't know if she likes the band.
I wish she were here now so I could dance with her.

"See the man up there with the stage fright,
just standin' up there giving it all his might.
He got caught in the spotlight,
but when they get to they end
he wants to start all over again."
-Rick Danko

Off topic:
I'm not worried about insects evolving
and eventually rising up against humanity,
the way Heinlein speculated in Starship Troopers
or Vollman did in You Bright and Risen Angels,
because, I figure, for how long humans
have been luring insects to their deaths
using the temptation of light,
by now, the insects would have developed
a religion that warns against that temptation
in order to truly become a threat to
modern humanity.
By my understanding, the complete overthrow
of a global or semi-global status quot,
takes, at the bare minimum, at least 2,500 years.
Twenty five hundred is how I would say it,
speaking this tangent to her;
hoping I wouldn't be met with her blank stare.
We don't see eye to eye on some things.
It makes this tangent glaringly pointless,
but I would never erase it.
In fact, I don't think I can.

I listen to Joni Mitchell and think
about the last time I danced with her.
As of now, it is still enough
to keep from embarrassing myself
in front of my self.

This is why I write:
to excuse myself by owning a dictionary.

We both think about suicide
in both a rational and academic way,
and an irrational and emotional way.
It's an existential portal to the core
of someone's mind.
I gravitate towards this thought,
healthy or not.
Seeing her activates an impulse within me
that I sometimes cannot control.
She can be, at most, ecstasy
and I can't shake that.

I am always hoping she is well,
unless she finds a way to hurt me
in a nearly complete way.
I lick my wounds
until they do not hurt anymore.
Then, I find her again.

Aaron C. Molden