The Other Side of Desire

It's strange not too hold on to every instant so goddamn tightly. Strange to uncurl my strained, hungry fingers and let the air kiss the lines on my palm. Somewhere, when I was looking the other way, I stopped wanting to suck every last drop of poetry from the moment. The constant longing has subsided. I can drop the metaphors of hummingbirds and honeysuckles. I can run across the street in the brightness of the Texas sun and not want so very, very much to find the truth of the moment.

It's even stranger that I am okay with this. I am okay with letting go of the truth of the moment. Who can imagine a Wendy not infatuated with the truth of the moment, a Wendy not trying to rub up against every shade of meaning, graph every nuance of feeling?

Whatever. The other side of desire seems nice enough. There still seems to be dancing and silliness and wordplay and good music on the other side, so I should be fine. I will let the moments dance themselves. I will let them dance me. I will show God the palms of my hands so she can see they are open open open. I am pretty sure she will want to kiss them too.