that aching heartbeat that stays with you through all of it

i have taught myself to sit still on park benches and watch the city turn purple around me, it is the only way to see the holes where you can crawl into someone else's life.  we move through a fluid more soluble than water.  it can be picked up, touched, kissed, moved and spun around.  but you can only catch glimpses of it.  there are petunias growing in a garden somewhere, and a mandolin sitting by the window, and smiles aimed like lasers.  to the east, the desert is sighing.  and winter is beginning to hiccup.  i am watching people walk home from work.  some of us are eating hamburgers and some of us are forgetting to breathe.  we get stumbling drunk, we make enough money to eat somehow (and sometimes not), we talk to old friends in the street, children come from our wombs, we do what we can, buses take us places, we read the newspaper, other people sell us shoes, we register for library cards, elementary schools, elections, our shopping carts fill up, we make friends, sex drives us crazy, we do things we can't take back, music creeps into our bodies and stays, we touch each other, houses hold us, we close our eyes and listen to the hum of the train, we lay in bed late some mornings, boats move beneath our feet, we teach each other what we know, dreams haunt us, we read books, grocery stores overwhelm us, we get mad at our parents, moments move us to tears, we see beauty in things we never expected, we let ourselves fall in love, people we care about die, we try to be good, all we are is ten hundred billion freeze frames set side by side, jumping like frogs, and nestling into each other, because nothing else is worth doing.