Each time I come home from work

I try approaching a thought,

only to feel like I’m floating too close to the sun.

There’s just this warm feeling

that’s either coming from me

or from outside, I can’t tell,

and every time I feel it

I tell myself it’s okay to not know what to say,

and that maybe the expression will never come,

that I have to look forward to

a ton of tolerance

and being kind to myself,

without ever really achieving anything

except a stammer.

That just sucks, that’s boring,

a little voice in my head says,

and it’s right,

it does suck, and it is boring,

and it’s disappointing too,

that is, until I admit

I don’t know what those things are either,

and that perhaps

terrifying should have been on the list.

Excuses get heavy under their own weight.

But this is supposed to be where

I say something uplifting

and turn a phrase

in order to make the story open up

and begin its final sprint to the finish

and break through the tape

into an illusory expression of permanence.

Normally I’d relish the opportunity.

Behavioral cognitive therapy is always welcome,

even when done poorly,

at least until saying the right thing at the right time

becomes a way to avoid feeling impregnated

by an alien.

Which is why,

though I’d like to keep this conversation going,

much like I’d like to keep myself going,

I know I’m not going to keep any of it anything,

and am simply ready to practice

resting with that now.

I still love lobster rolls and eggs benedict though.