Danger Zone (2/1/10)

(This started being about one thing and then I kinda went into unconscious mode and it turned into something else. Didn't plan that, which is sort of weird. It feels like i didn't write it, like it was already there and just like spewed out of me onto the page. Whatever the case, I like the images that ended up here. It's cool when words have a life of their own...)

It won't be ok
until all pangs subside,
and good days aren't interrupted
with shortness of breath
and a brainwash of memories.
Memories I dropped, weighted with an anchor of guilt,
into the East River.
But memories aren't like metals.
Their mass doesn't respond well to gravity
and sink politely down to the sand.
They seem to fly without wings,
forever defying ten meters per second squared.
Then again, when they return
to the front of your brain
it is with a quickness and force
that can only be described as magnetic.
So maybe they are more metallic than I thought.
They can also cut into my breastbone
like a knife,
and shine like new with a little polish.
And they can certainly be precious.
Precious, dangerous, sparkly little drip drops.
Averse to weight and dark corners
but not spontaneity or cruelty.
The only way to blunt their sharp edges
is time. Which can grind them
down into something that fits
comfortably in your palm,
lightly resting there without drawing blood.
When they return without drawing blood,
I can sigh in relief, slip them into my pocket,
and this part will be finished.