Moreover, thinking about one's mortality
What will happen is this:
your knees will creak after a long run
and your back might hurt.
(more) Maybe you have to write down things - phone numbers and dates -
that once you juggled
in your head, like
like a circus performer
and his flaming torches.
Sex takes longer.
But what the hell,
do you have something better to do?
Let it take forever.
There may be a few crossed out names
in your address book.
No, not your exes.
One of your yoga buddies shows up
after a few absences, a few pounds lighter
and talks about her chemotherapy.
The scar on your shoulder still itches
but you can't talk about it.
Thank you, Eastern European superstition.
Meanwhile your friends in the band
cancel their show
the lead guitarist had a stroke
he jokes about getting back into the swing
of things, maybe starting back
with a friendly audience. Your heart breaks
but the show must go on.
People say it when they want to talk about something more important. I imagine men in business suits in a shiny conference room murmuring about market trends and returns, tossing in a "moreover" when their thoughts get away from them, when their feet lift off the solid ground to(more) tap in impatience.
The sense that there's something "more," something above and "over" the current topic of course means there's something under it too. Something less. Something the "moreover"-utterer would rather not say.
My girlfriend is sitting next to me at the dining table I got from the thrift store. It wobbles a little and I can feel her hand making letters as she writes a letter to her mother. Her mother is the "under," lurking beneath, far more pleasant to be encased in a "moreover" than to be exalted with one.
The "under" bubbles up every so often though, usually when she calls and I have to be still and quiet. She knows there's a girlfriend but she likes to pretend there's not. I slip under because I like having something over on her. I hold my breath until Anne shuts the phone and we take big breaths and giggle into each other's mouths.
This girl. She is my "morever," bringing my thoughts back when they run away from me. She is the punctuation to my day, the track that guides me home. If there are businessmen in the shiny conference room of my head, I'm sure her name has long ceased being a conjunction and become a mantra. Not "ommmm," but "Annnnne."
As we write in silence, my nervous foot skips to the left to be more over toward hers. Without looking up, she moves both of hers to be over mine.(less)
Henry was sitting on the sidewalk, with his feet on the grass, knees up, arms draped over them, and this is the way I remember him, though this moment came in the middle of the time I knew him. Mostly he sat i(more)n office chairs or walked between buildings when I saw him, or waited in line for Starbucks when we had no other choice for coffee.
Henry is a stupid name for him. Phil is maybe more accurate.
Phil was not supposed to be my boss, but it worked out that way. He was good at getting me to do things, and I never resented his suggestions, even when they were obvious criticisms. He was larger than most men that I spent time with, and his shoulders looked like hams but his shirts fit, no pulling at the seams, and the shoulders lined up where they should. My uncle was built like Phil, and my uncle could not for the life of him find a shirt to fit.
When he sat on the pavement, feet in the grass, his hands hung down, reminding me of wisteria. His fingers were thick but long and articulate, and I noticed for the first time that day that their movements corresponded with his cadence. While he waited for an answer, or if he hesitated finding the right word (he was always careful with words), he would touch his thumb to his pointer finger for a moment.
I wanted to shrink myself into that space, to be between Phil's hesitating fingers, to feel his cadence in his hands, and to see what his shoulders looked like without their shirt.
This moment was the apex of our understanding. Phil is a stupid name for him. I will call him Brian.(less)
She sipped slowly on the same watered-down Coke she'd been drinking all night wishing she could fade into the wall and disappear.
Her mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts as she watched him bounce around the room shooting from place to place, stopping for a few words here and there(more) as his band broke down their gear to make room for the next band.
Feeling out-of-place and alone in a room half-filled with half-drunks she set what was left of her drink on the bar and stepped outside for a cigarette.
It was freezing outside. A major snowstorm had been predicted but so far there was nothing but frozen rain blowing sideways from the blustery wind.
Icy pellets stung her cheeks as she struggled to keep a flame lit long enough to light her cigarette. Taking a good long drag of nicotine she exhaled as she turned toward the door and there he was,standing in front of her on the steps.
She felt that magnetic pull she always felt when he was around.She was helplessly drawn to him.
Whether it was because she saw so much of herself in him or just plain chemistry,she couldn't control the unconscious sway of her body toward his as he stood one step above her.
Cigarette in one hand, the other shoved into the front pocket of his well-worn jeans he said nothing.
He didn't have to,his eyes told her everything she needed to know.
They drew her in and everything else disappeared.
All the bullshit,all the stress,all the complications faded away and she wanted to pull him into her arms and make his pain go away along with her own.
They were both bruised,battered,and beaten-down.
She didn't care what was real,right now she wanted to feel something other than frozen.
She wanted to burn.(less)
i hold back, saying the minimum to convey my thoughts. these unreleased emotions roll over and over in my mind as i scientifically examine them from many angles. they flood and wash through me and over me and fill my lungs as i learn to hold them close. before,(more) back when i let them go without concern, i let words slip that held no weight to me but hit you like a strong wind. the flippancy of the release unequal to the impact caused imbalanced erosion that can't be changed.
so i sit,
learning to examine,
for the meantime. (less)
Jasper nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you did. Do you not know the definition of 'moreover'?"
"Of course I do, it's obvious, isn't it?" Airi told him haughtily. "Besides, maybe I just wanted to emphasize my point."
"No you didn't, you just said you didn't say the same thing twice!" Jasper exclaimed.
"Maybe I wanted to emphasize it subtly and you were screwing it up," Airi shot back.
Jasper tried to reply, but it came out as a series of squawks and screeches, all the while his face becoming red with frustration. Finally, not being able to choose a retort, he threw up his arms in defeat and let her continue.(less)