Feathers. in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

Feathers.

I write of you.

I write of you when I remember just how long it has been since we were tethered in our nightly rendezvous. Tangled within the numbers of one-on-one at times in opposition, smiling while circling the angst of division that might tear us into a secluded place far out of view. Steadfastly in mind and in quiet adding ourselves back together over and over until once again we stay not singular but two.

You are the multiplication of desire and youth.

I write of you.

As we would always be when lightning shattered the landscape we thought was billowing white clouds and tantalizing shades of blue. And I stumbled upon the kinetic sensation that is you. Awash in your flowing locks, mismatched socks and crazy desire for feeling every single moment of the day wash through and over you. Each of us searching for something. Something true. And limping together our whole way through.

I write of you.

You are such a prismatic consequence. I dream of crystalline raindrops in clandestine sandlots whenever I think of being close to you. The battlefield of brilliance that leaves lasting scars on willing hearts has had its shine and its time with what might have been me. And you. Sweltering moments of tension littered with misplaced intentions and here I sit recollecting on such sparkling significant. Reflecting on the gulf of the difference that separates. Separates one life into two. And I am left searching for a pen to meet paper and allow my mind to un-anchor all of the weight that is the missing. And I find there is not a one in view.

I write of you.

I do.

I wonder if my hands and my face were meant for this time and this place or perhaps suited more for an older venue. Perhaps my very nostalgia for groaning romance and chivalrous advance should remain a sadly devoted and quite quaint view. Embrace the instant replication of moments. It’s news! Comment and forget! Just make sure it’s after you hit send. But before you do, I request. Like it. won’t you? Nary a bother if it’s true. Or maybe my fingers were meant for metals not plastics, inspiring characters not wireless passwords, and holding you in my arms instead of pressing End Call when you aren’t. .

Oh, feathers.

You are my quill and ink pot.

All the reasons I hold on when I should not.

And the motive for so many dreams not quite true.

I write.

I write of you.

Brian Milici
November 9, 2017

Whoa, so apparently some of you guys still read this completely randomly updated prosebox. I should have logged in sooner to see all the comments. How was everyone’s Halloween? Did anyone dress up? I used to scare the hell out of kids for years dressing up handing out candy. (Yeah, it was the costume. Shut it. I saw the joke coming.) I registered the good years by how many kids I got to cry. Don’t worry. I took off the mask as soon as they did and calmed them down while the parents usually laughed/comforted them.

And taking off the mask actually did help with that. Ha. So Thanksgiving is coming up, but I am doing a new diet and exercising regularly so I may bastardize my annual meal. Anyone else doing anything similar? This world we live in is pretty crazy. It feels like everyday there’s something shaking head worthy to behold.

Anyway, I hope all of you are well. I think I may start writing again.

May you always find your smile.