June 15, 2019. A poem.

From an early age and from the time that I felt that tingling feeling after seeing the neighbor girl. Not a care in the world as someone who would do anything to pursue that murmur in my chest, to chase those heartbeats like footprints in the sand.

I was destined to be a romantic.

The swing set was a fine place to rocker myself by pushing off the gravel with my sneakers, to garner enough momentum to free up about 2-4 inches of space to pull my ankles up to my rear and with a swift kick forward utilize the laws of Newton to jettison myself like a small satellite into the ether. The space I created by my own movement was enough to feel like I was the first man on the moon and that momentum seemed like it could carry me for days.

To sit in the tree near the swing , the withering multi-dimensional tree at the end of the basketball court that was struck by lightening, resulting in a splitting into two, with one side, winnowing branches stretching towards the swings and the other side, standing taller, more stoic, leaving a perch as the perfect place to sit and tell stories or smoke a joint with enough vision to see any parents coming into the park.

What makes my heart beat?

Have I been chasing that feeling my whole life to replicate the open path of a lover in pursuit? Is that why I run, I bike, I dance and I drink? To feel. To have the constant tick and the comforting warmth of the blood moving into a central location, sometimes two locations, the self and the non-self coalescing.

Romantics are the best at swinging.

I swing for the sky, believing that if I want it bad enough I can think and move in the right way to turn the tides of gravity and land amidst the stars.

Swing swing.

Love and light.