you asked me what i was passionate about,
and i thought
and i thought
and i thought
and nothing bubbled up
so i said, “i don’t know”
and looked forlornly at the blank wall
of our apartment, slightly biting my bottom lip.
i tried, i plumbed the depths in search
of something to latch on to,
something bright that would light the corners of your smile
when you saw the finished product.
but there was nothing,
and it didn’t feel bad, or off, or sad, or numb.
just nothing.
i thought about the buddha, meditating underneath the tree.
am i doing that? i thought during brisk morning showers
shaving quickly, tying ties, draping myself in cloth.
my mind made montages of your falling face.
my mind raced with answers to a question
that i didn’t know needed answering.
how do i find what lights you up.
how do i hook you in to me?
where is satisfaction.
i watch your eyes grazing the morning newspaper,
clad in panties and socks,
softly crunching on toast with butter.
the crumbs like dark freckles on your pale breasts.
i kiss your forehead, i run my hand through tangled hair.
running out of answers.
bungee jumping, scuba diving, literature, theatre, art,
hanging out with friends, stabbing myself with swords,
anything, video games, drinking myself to oblivion,
shooting TVs like elvis, jump rope, making square pancakes,
anything, anything, i could try it all and feel no dopamine.
we fuck and that’s great
but that has passion embedded in it
and when the lights are low and red
and we are underneath the warm light
of the patio behind the bar,
the middle of winter,
your friends discussing something
my ears are not tuned
and i am thinking of …. what.
what am i thinking of.
you ask in pillow talk and i can’t answer.
i have no answer. i have all answers.
“i don’t know.”
“nothing.” but i am always.
i’m thinking of how to keep you
and show you i am worth your time.
but i don’t know how.
and i am treading water.
and i am drowning.
please.
