For a few moments I was sure that my heart was in the last stages of St. Vitus' Dance, thumping and twisting in my chest so erratically and hard that I found myself sure someone across the room could hear it, face flooding with embarrassment and confusion. I looked at my hands as though my fingernails were magic mirrors that could tell me what to do.
I like ghosting home through the empty streets in weekday taxicabs. I like that for the length of the road home no one knows just where I am, that that perfumed car with its ripped upholstery is the whole world. I'd like to travel the universe in a taxicab.
On the one hand I have too much, and on the other nothing at all, and clapping just won't make the two meet in the middle. I want to cut these strings and let my heart free to continue its dance released from the confines of my ribcage, a bloody throbbing fist moonwalking and doing the cabbage patch and not hurting anymore, but it's all tangled up in the threads you left behind.