A Priest in Romania

We make it what we want.  Every day I see you hurt yourself.  Every day I see you’re tired, but I can’t rest for you. I can’t sleep for you.  You work hard.  You find joy in the darkness.  You don’t see the beauty in taking out the trash, but you find beauty in it.  You’re skilled in that way.  Your search for happiness is short, but your happiness is short lived as well.

And there are voices.  They tell you to stop. Quit. Don’t do it.  Quit hurting yourself.  Quit it. Stop! But you like the search.  You like mining for diamonds in the caves, and you saw a shimmer and you’ll never stop.  I don’t know you, but I could have.  You are what I would have been.  You are what I could have been.  But I like shutting doors.  And I shut mine just before yours.

For sandy skin, yours isn’t so smooth.  You have tales of the scar on your head.  Your accent cuts through the air while you tell me you danced with gypsies.  You tell me about getting away before they cut you up.  And we fly over the pavement.  Boys had tried to impress me, to scare me on their four wheels, but when you drive it is all for yourself.  You don’t need for speed.  I think you speed for need.  You see beauty in every corner, in every inch.  The closer you cut, the closer you get.  You like playing with fire; your hands were meant to be blistered. They were meant to bleed.

Your fingers wrap around the steering wheel like a cowboy and rope, but you’re not American, you’re just a man searching for hope.  And you dream and you wait – a patience unknown.  Who would have thought you and your green hat care so much for a place to call home? And you talk and you laugh.  And I could have opened you up, but you separate yourself from me. You tell me I’m just a kid – as if you were older, as if you were tainted.  As if I haven’t yet lived.

And I  watch you walk, because I can see the greatness in each tired step.  Your professional calves slim into your ankles in such a way that means your mother must have been a ballerina, and your father must have been rough.  And I wonder what you were like when you were in love.  When the girl that drove you crazy, was more than enough.  You hide it well, but you’re broken.  And even more so, you don’t want to be fixed.  You’re fixed on her – and you’ll find her in another.  And you’ll look for her heart in another chest. And you’ll hear her heart beating, when she holds onto you in bed.

No one understands. I know. I understand.  You know you know love.  You don’t think I do.  It doesn’t matter that you’re wrong.  Nothing matters with you. Keep it clean. Be the host. Let your house fill up – You don’t want to be alone with her ghost.  Play. Laugh. Throw up.  Do what you do best.  And look for her in someone else, because you know there’s no one else. All there is is second best.

A Blue Drink

This World