It’s this thing I do,
Perhaps a singular trait,
Painting my thoughts with the feelings I wish I’d had.
In minor moments, I quietly explode
All the way out to the edges of the galaxy,
Or, if I’m feeling particularly infinite, the stretched, perpetually reaching fingers of the universe
Cerebral shrapnel which, though vast and of both massive quantity and distinction,
Is as organized as a freshly trimmed shrub maze.
I used to wonder what my calling might be,
Why I could never settle like a tea cup into its intended saucer,
Porcelain edges rattling, messily kissing with teeth, before lifting off again to quench the next thirst
Not indecision, exactly,
Dissatisfaction with the final fitting.
No truly real thing could ever bear the weight of the fat, golden glow which rests over the pieces I fruitlessly belabor,
The cruel, comforting obsession from which I don’t want to be saved
But oh!
The velvety soft pile cries out to be caressed,
And, as my fingers are currently uninvolved, they run fervent currents through rivers of fibers
They will worry and never rest