Our Unsavory Stories

Our Unsavory Stories

I suppose the starting point is to map out all of my stumbles.
That would be extraordinary, though, because so few who I know
have written about theirs. I am not suggesting that we all project
our failures like an image on the screen. It would take only a moment
after seeing it the first time, to never want to see it again.
Are our connections tangible? Is this why I rarely talk to
anyone throughout the day.
I’m not entirely embarrassed about my sins,
It's just that those who would bear the load with me have
moved on or, even worse;
died.
It's true, I can share half the conversation with my departed
ones
and not fear their responses. But my dearest touches of heart
are those I desire to authenticate my life with me.
I’d invite you to dinner, and I would be fine while we ate,
but what do we do with spidery conversations after the dessert
is pulled from the table?

I’d meet you for a drink, but that is ever more frightening.
How would we fill the hour while we waited for the barkeep
to pour our next beer? And besides, I don’t even know if
you like beer or not. I’d order for you but I’m sure I would
choose the wrong concoction, setting our meeting up for
failure from the start.

There are a few, though, along the way, for whom I’ve secretly
cracked open the door hoping to see a face who wants me
truly, no matter how disorderly my story might be.

I am not despondent about it today, I simply wonder how
many days it takes in our economy to repair the sandy foundations
of a life that meant well. We could go to the park and
chase frisbees I guess; sit in the sun disguised as friends.
That would give little time for the discomfort we feel in trying
to occupy the air with words we haven’t thought about in ages.

That’s not true; the words preoccupy my mind. I worry who
would accept them carte blanche from the first time we spoke?
After all,

And maybe I’m wrong.

But don’t we all have unsavory stories we’d prefer stay
hidden like an old photograph fading in the sun?