What do I do with you?

You’re as much an emotion, as a sensation,

or a sublime thing I cannot touch.

There are sparks that fly and cogs that whir and an energy that exhilarates the blood.

I can’t go about with the intention of finding you,

or expect you to appear where you are not.

Rather let you hop right out in front of me

and stop me in my tracks,

or seep into my skin unawares,

or come at me like a wave at full throttle.

Part of the rush, the cerebral fervour, is your possible transience.

I have no clue how I will use you.

Are you something subconsciously stashed and fondly rediscovered with new found purpose? 

Or are you rapid, with the feeling of a May fly’s fleeting existence? 

What do I do with you?

For now, I try this.

Photo by Aleks Dahlberg

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