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Bespeckled
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When you spill it all so carelessly,
so hurriedly,
urgent to let it out
and known,
eager for the thoughts to spill from your fingers like they did so suddenly into your mind that you nearly couldn't believe they were yours.
Those fairy kisses of wisdom, light and "I understand," "I get it," "Finally, I see"-ness that can't
possibly
be your own,
all from your own head,
because they're just that perfect-
and even heavenly.
So you let them rage from your fingertips,
fleeing silver specks into the night,
into the world to spread their knowing light,
you,
not really their creator,
no,
not really the one who gave them birth,
but yes,
you gave them wings,
and you gave them flight,
and this,
this, your purpose,
to spill them out for others! -
and then -
finally!-
it's done!
And your fairy babies dance away into the world that we call "ours"
(when really, it's as "ours" as our fairy thoughts are, which is to say, it's only a temporary gift -
a lovely rendezvous bounded by time until that bitter-kiss signalling a parting into night),
and now, as you watch them dance away from sight and mind,
you still,
still -
even after imparting the gift you were meant to give,
that you had no other choice but to share,
that maybe even defined your existence for that brief moment in time -
can't help but wonder, with a nervous afterthought hastily tucked into the back of your mind -
what will they think?
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031207
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