Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart;
of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants.
The way it stops and starts.
-Edger Allen Poe
My knee instinctively curls up on the barstool in the kitchen to greet my chin. Toes balance the weight of my long leg by flexing up and out. I look like a yogi but feel like an old creaky cat.
This is where my ceramic-thrift-store-periwinkle mug sits, filled to the brim with steaming FairTrade (we always hope) South American magic beans. Hoodie is up, over my bedhead; the crust of sleep has barely been rubbed from my eyes.
My back needs a downward dog. Stacks of to-do’s, but today is Saturday and I choose music playlists and puppy spooning.
The gray Colorado sky outside agrees with me.
Why do I lust after newness like it is the last lifeboat on a sinking ship?
It will not serve me, in the end. Not better than my present situation is. What is it about the senses of my heart that feel the need to be refreshed all too often? But then, why can’t I give up that thought? Boredom? Loneliness? The dull ache of a want so big that it needs no words. It needs nothing. Not to be fed like a fire. Not to be squelched.
I want to be satisfied with the ever-present ache. Let it be that.
se echa en falta de mi parte.
(you are missing from me.)