I like the way this swing swivels and pitches out after me when I hop off and head for home. Sometimes I feel that it's movements are begging me to come back--just one more go.
I like that, climbing aboard, I am suddenly weightless. I ebb and flow, back and forth, while I watch the world as a movie because the music is too loud for me to hear much else. It's better this way: I run harder, I pump my legs with greater force. And this is when I begin to forget where the rest of the world has got itself to, and I sing. I hardly know anyone but myself--I know myself.
I like the way I yield a longer pull when I pump with my legs crossed. I haven't quite figured out the physics guiding it, but the physical guiding me senses it, and I do it again and again.
And then I begin working my hips in to it, twisting--and skeewomp is me, is the swing, is the thrumming cavity in my chest where I once touted a heart. The misdirection thrills me and my eyes close to find catharsis in it's unpredictability. After a moment or two, however, the twist slows to a routine and suddenly I'm on a new beaten path.
I like the way it feels near impossible to step gently off this swing. Instead, I jump--even if it's a mere two-incher. That maybe explains why it never seems to be satisfied with the attention I've paid, and continually beckons, motions for more. I can resist it maybe. My day need never begin; I am caught in a cycle I don't want out of.
I like it that way.
No comments:
Post a Comment