Unlucky (a go-by)

If you aren’t careful, you can let yourself feel very unlucky in love—

Maybe it’s just the rainy gloom of a waning February.
The shortest month’s close giving breath to the fear life is just passing you by.
You can almost see the torn calendar pages whizzing all around you and into the trash can.
Maybe it’s the fact that they never called, and you catch yourself still hoping the number will pop up—
Even though it won’t.

It feels a bit like you’re a comet sailing through the bleakness of the universe.
Brilliant. Beautiful.
Cold. Alone.
Seen by all, yet far and away.
Just moving on—
Solo.

I clutch my silver Celtic necklace as I look at the misty sky enveloping Mercedes-Benz Stadium.

“Wisdom.”
That’s what this configuration symbolizes.
I dunno how much wisdom it brings.
Mom, the girls, M, and I each have one.
The exact same one.

In moments like this, when the comet tail trails long, it helps me feel connected.

I think I was supposed to be married to Indiana Jones.
Indiana, not Harrison Ford (that’s important. No offense to Harrison.)

Indiana would leave, because that seems to be what all men do—
But it would be an adventure.
The jungle, treasure hunting,
narrow escapes, booby traps.
And kissing that scruffy, rugged face while swinging to safety on his whip over a waterfall or crevasse or something. (Butterflies)

He’d leave, but at least it would be Indiana Jones leaving—
Not just some jackleg you gave your heart to, only to have him drop it on the ground.
Drop it where it thuds (and bleeds) upon impact like a plump red tomato on the kitchen floor.

(sigh)

Between the comets and tomatoes and Indiana Jones and rain and February and idiots—
You can let yourself feel really, really unlucky in love if you aren’t careful.

I look outside—
The warm air brushes against my face as I open the sliding door.
My eyes scan across downtown.
I can see it now.

The rain stopped.