On Whiplash

We all know that

Real change is an inside job

But what about when the outside whirls past

Quicker than my heart has time to process

Than my veins have time to pump

This new blood

Refreshed with oxygen and optimism

Through all the cracks and corners in my body.

I’ve always had poor circulation,

I will admit,

And as my hands are turning purple with the cold

They are also perplexed at how to interpret

The emptiness that they now hold.

It’s different than the dearth they are used to

The gaping

The wanting

The longing for a warmth that fills,

That brims,

That escapes.

It’s a void that is more exciting than deafening

An empty calendar

A blank slate

A glove that perfectly fits,

Ready to warm a palm that is so used to the pain

That comes with being numb.

It’s the feeling of the wind

Whipping back and forth

On exposed cheeks

Raw with vulnerability

Rosy with the hint of conviviality

that the first December cold brings.

And my life feels like a Polaroid blur

The shutter clicked just-so

in the moment in-between

A frown

And the upturning of the lips,

A flipping of the page

Frozen in time –

I’ve always liked the blurry images best.

There’s a story to tell,

A life that’s being lived,

Even if it is

Ripping me limb from limb

Until I learn

How to let the dust settle

Sink to the bottom

Make a home

Before once again

Tipping the hourglass.