Waiting to Collide

Groping in the Dark

Fumbling like teenagers, we grope for experience. We aren't here for the pleasure. Not for love, or passion, or the moment. In this promiscuity of boredom, we reach for whatever comes to us first. Whatever life is willing to offer to stave off a hour of mental silence. The explosions and flashes and bangs of relief from ourselves. We are so, so terrified of exposure, and is it so, so easy to hide in front of a television, behind a fork, or with a book in hand. A paper barrier in bed. Paw in the dark for the handholds. Fingers slide over things smooth, soft, warm, yielding.

There's nothing here that can support my weight.

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