intermission

when you find yourself in a waiting period

I’ve been telling my friends, as off-track as my life seems right now, there are enough moments strung along to remind me it’s still mine. I find a collage of the Last Supper made from butterfly wings. my grandfather and I talk dinner plans over the phone and find we’re both making pesto salmon tonight. the bartender mentions she wishes she could join my friends and me, glittered faces cackling in a red-lit corner. but those moments space out few and far in between,

and the middle ground catches me like rushing water. something about this isn’t sticking like it used to, like when you lie down to sleep, but the dream won’t take. I curl up under the blankets, close my eyes, and feel every minute pass. I feel too oil-slick, too alien. yes, this life is mine, but more often, I watch it take place and my hands feel too far away to touch it. another day passes and I realize I wait like a stand-in for whoever knows how to do this better. only in my skin enough to wake and walk the dog and breathe in how the morning tastes like cold water. 

I’m good at beginning new and terrible at waiting. I want to fill the gap between my skin and wherever I’m sitting in it. I want the pink sky to pull me into its lap. I want my footfall in the dirt, I want to be hungry, listen to the steam from butter simmering on the stove, or at the very least, to sit in my bedroom without misplacing me. yes, this life is mine, but the intermission music trills on. every next page sounds like an ending. 

with love,

schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck