Spaces

It always hurts.

I always hurt. Myself, that too.

It goes around in this exaggerated parabola of a chain, hits me in the stomach and 

my feet give out under me each time.

Each time, I want to escape it, 

this feeling that something is amiss,

 that I’m in the wrong place. 

And each time, 

I’m blind-folded, 

my vulnerability ticks away from showing up in full swing,

 my heart a reckless beast that

 I try to hide

 in futile rags.

 Always,

 I’m reaching out, 

stumbling over unseen rocks

 and feelings, 

I’m calling out. 

I’m screaming. 

Loud, 

wailing. 

No, but 

between us, all there is, 

is space. 

Particles floating between us, that’s all.

 I turn on a torch, 

they’re stars to me.

 But nevertheless, space.

 Space it is. 

Never blank, never empty.

 Always space. 

Between this word and the next, space. 

This world and the next, space.

 And as you walk past me, I can feel it, 

and although I just want to

stay still till you learn to wait,

I chase after. 

I know it’s not the right time

or the right thing, 

but how do you define right?