Naked Existence

You are the butcher and his knife.

You are the old woman's porch and the windchimes that sing sad songs of nostalgia.

However you are not the rain on the coblestones and you are certainly not the dirt between the child's fingers.

It is possible that you are the soles of my shoes.

Or even the clouds that cover the sun on a rainy day.

But I, I am the leaves in the storm drain.

The dollar bill you found in your favorite pair of worn out jeans.

I am the bakery that's still open on sunday when all the others are closed down to rest.

But don't worry, I'm not the smudges on your face or the tears that cleans them off.

I'm not the crooked cane or the ugly creature that lives in your attic.

I'm not the mold growing on the corners of your toast you ate this morning either.

I'm not the curled toes of a ballerina or the sweat that is dewing on the thief's upper lip.

I'm the necklace that is hanging from your pale neck and the lights that glitter inside your precious eyes.

You are the fire burning your crembule and the brick walls that protect the trembling children.

But don't worry, you are still the wind chimes and the old woman's porch.

The butcher and his knife.

I could never allow myself to be the butcher and his knife because that's what you are, my dear.