What are these incongruent thoughts: One of a slow kiss and another of falling?

A heavy rush of nausea up my gut and into my throat. My knee slowly rising from the prickled caress of new born August grass. I stare out across a field of Florida dandelions. A long yellow bud rising high above the others. I give it a name. Lola. It must be stronger than the others, I think. It must be filled with a determination: to reach up so high above the others. What is this personification, really? Casting out my desires, a net, onto a flower bud as if I may learn something from its courageous venture into the sky. As if I might catch its slippery abstraction in my tightly tied knots of familiar things. How lucky it must feel to be so high above, I think. As if luck has anything to do with its long stretched neck and loose hanging leaves. Relaxed. Drooping down under the weight of its ambitious head. Truth is I havent written anything in a while. Its sort of painful getting back into it. Like there is a build up of words against the front of my brain but the pipe to my fingers is clogged. Like a garbage disposal after a drunken night of omelets and butchered veggies. Every stroke of my fingers is shoving a pipe snaked down the line to clear the muck and old residue. It helps to be inspired. To catch a whiff of what is now a rare moment of transcendent realization. Like the first time you really understand how far away the moon is. Like feel it. Heavy and daunting because the human mind is not meant be so far out from its calcium chamber. Inspiration. Like the first time you lock eyes with a beautiful woman. Before it is cliche. Before the moment is tainted with Egoic plans in future tense. Before a stare becomes a possibility and not just a tingle and a flutter. Because the human heart does not know how to be so far out from its calcium cage. Practice makes perfect, they say; but, Ive been so distracted with the day to day of living and paying bills that Ive forgotten how to take that moment of reflection and just write. Speak and dance my fingers across these oily plastic keys. Half a year of greasy fingers and late night video games. Of wine glass toasts to Prime Time character reunions. What have I become here in this chair so far from the mountains? Lola doesnt answer me but I know she understands. Love is a torturous endeavor, I continue, and it occurs to me more oft than not to take my leave of it. To bar the door of romantic expression and allow the light of my own self love to be my guide. A path of one is lonely but it is predictable. Perhaps I have become too comfortable in the knowledge of my own predictability. Maybe I thrive on stress and worry. Or, maybe, I am simply a glitched program outdated in my romanticism. I mean who gifts roses and poetry these days? Who pours wine under moonlight trying desperately not to spill a drop on the white table cloth because their hand is shaking under the weight of too many metaphors and cliches? Who writes songs for a current lover when a past heartache is so much more tangible?

Passion is molten lead bubbling in the cauldron of every shared moment and when it dries up it is solid and one can hold it in their hands and weigh it and shift it about. One can notice the scuffs and the dents and the imperfections and debris that made their way into the bubbling purity and caused that divine metallurgist to cast aside their pot into the cold water of heartbreak. Is this the heavy weight resting in the bottom of my heart like the lure of some cosmic fishing line sent to hook me and gut me on the shore of coarse affection? Is passion that quick to solidify? Does age quicken more than just the pace of Deaths horse? I think too much and it is damning; but, to act too much with out thought is foolish. And so the dance continues. The pull and push. The tug-o-war of sense and heart. Of logic and romanticism. As the day leaves down across the western sky I pull my guitar from its dusty case. Bow my head to Lola, my heroic dandelion and begin to pluck out whatever notes my heart is singing in my head. Sometimes the rhythm is rocky and sometimes it is distant and old. The reverberations of my wooden lovers strings rattle my sternum and my throat shivers and shakes until I am singing loudly to the ghosts of the field. Dead songs livened by the blood of my sore fingers--wailing out to the stars a song of love and hope and passion. And though misery and defeat echo back as tunes once cherished--I know that I am no longer dependent on their base and false pleasure. Then morning comes and the crust of a memory is wiped from my eyes like dust from a old window sill with curtains still ripe with the smell of burnt candles and spilt wine. It is then that I rise up from the grass with the prickled caress of baby August grass still tingling on my knees. Stash my guitar back into its leather case and raise my head up to the sky for which that lone dandelion strives to reach and pull my heart back down into its calcium cage. Careful, I say, Ive only just now got you back.