What we all lack

Glass panels tint everything green and
lonely. You don't have to be
alone to feel it.

We fly through towns like they're not
there. If we mutter the name of something
enough times, it won't be real.

My teeth click no matter how cold it
is. The weather is relatively nice, but
still I shake.

Our destination is there before I see
it. We arrive
without fanfare.

A building filled with captured
moments. Caught strangely, maybe unconventionally,
and through a medium unfamiliar to me.

Maybe many of these moments never even
happened. Moments of the mind
can be most beautiful.

Spasms of philosophy lose eloquence
aloud. Sometimes we try
just the same.

Giggles chirp through empty
rooms. Too loud, but
never unwelcome.

A piece captivates
us. The title is what we
can't fight free from.

Soon we give up, too eager for the
rest. It only gets
better as we go.

It strikes me that the real art here isn't on the
walls. It's in us, it's in what we think about the masterpieces,
it's how they make us feel.

It's in the in-curve of our
waists. It's the bend
of our knees.

It's on the tip of our
tongues. It's at
our fingertips.

It grows from our heads with our
hair. We tread upon it, because
it's the soles of our feet.

Like I said, philosophy wouldn't sound so good directly
stated. I prefer to
let it ripen.

Later it's the lonely glass
again. I feel safe as
long as you laugh.

Silly songs surface in
Starbucks. We say domo arigato
to our caramel macchiatos.

Finally we succumb to that which has plagued
us. We've been avoiding
coming back to it.

It never goes
away. To lack is not to have, but not-having is
ever present.

I could share my
theories. However, I would rather not taint
this poem with my societal discontent.

I feel like we might be toeing the
edge. We never quite dive in, too busy
calculating from which angle it would be best to jump.

Maybe there is no
meaning. We finish, but
not really satisfied.

No meaning - what kind of sick contradiction is that?