She neglected her work in defiance, an meditated mediocrity. She sat in the corner, back, avoiding all eye contact and recommendations. When he would spring out of his two windowed office with a task that he was far to much at leisure to complete, she noticed that he tended to pick an employee whose name he could pronounce in one syllable, "hey Mick, could you type up the status of the Progressive report" or a suitable alternate within proximity of his office. Like a wave, his decibels would increase as he reached the climax of his request and then dwindle off to a whimper as he signified that it needed to be on his desk in the morning.
This is why she choose the desk, il-ly lit, by the fake ficus and the accountant with next to no idea that she had a mustache that pre-pubescent boys envied. Unfortunately, the moment Carl emerged from his sudoku to disperse another task was carefully orchestrated by the victims of proximity to be the moment that they were on the phone or elsewhere. So his stride, though of a much further distance than ever before, reached Jessica's desk with a sly smile and a tone of self righteous delegation. "Uh, Jess, if you could have this report typed copied and collated for our shareholders meeting by 400 today i would really appreciate it thanks" and before the gratitude left his lips and the paper hit her desk he had turned heel and walked to the sanctuary of his office. Checking her watch for the worst case scenario, she winced.

LOST

Please take responsibility for this, because it has already claimed me. Don't say you don't know what I am talking about. Everything has a logic to it; even anger, even love. There is a definite map that shows us how we got here, what turns we took, what motivations we had for stopping, what hunger we had that made us turn around and go back. It wasn't without guidance. So sit here with me and we will trace the lines together and figure out how we have such dark words that we share. On the couch, turn off the TV, tell me why you hide there where I can't get you. Where you change clothes and wear disguises so I can't see you anymore. I desperately want to see you, I need to see you so I know that this is the right way. That I wasn't upside down and backwards, heading down a path that I know is a dead end. I want to hear you, past the angry litany and reddening eyes, the sweetened stipulations, the feelings wounded and forgotten in a woeful sacrifice toward this road we are on. I can see, when I wipe the rear view, where we have been, and then I will let it fog over again. But we need to keep the windshield clear.

Private markings of past affection, wedged between my daily doings. Sometimes they spring up and my level rises. I am skipping days already, waiting for the affection to be pressed into me leaving its brand.
Can I have a quick taste of what it will be like? Brief, sweet, demanding my attention...
Sinking into it I can't stop the chase. Too late to pull back, the current pulls me in.
Whisper to me, I will hear, tell me everything it will be, I will believe you.

The lock released
For so long, it clung tightly,
holding my breath,
stealing my prideful freedom,
my freelance nonchalance.
something clicked open
and i have that taste again
that i can do it,
anyway or how i choose
someone put my soundtrack back on
so the story continues.

Songs weave in and out and between heads that bob along or with some other far away dream
thats sits squarely out of reach. I bob along I am half here and half elsewhere, making me ineffective and strained. So as they define and converse I sneak away to where the music doesn't sink between but stands center. Where words command beauty, elequently, elegantly...with grace. This living that I make, I fear, is making me.
In box gaining speed...outbox growing lonely. Something is dimming and sadly I don't even remember what it is. Tragic acceptance, money pulls me along and I have become it's lapdog, begging for a treat.

I
Have
to
Escap
e
Before
its
too
l
a
t
e
.

Your hands are so innocent. They walk across tasks, checking for acceptance, applying for credit. Without disdain or frustration, they make mistakes and make corrections.
We were cooking, pasta I think, and it was something you had never cooked (which is pretty much anything beside Mac N'cheese and popcorn). I was watching, guiding, smiling as you chopped onions and tried not to cry. Is this sliced thin enough? What should I do next? Want me to grate the cheese? Your hands hold no sin, only gratitude for work.
Fingers finish their small jobs and wait for the next, articulate, anxious, eager to complete.
You joke that you know what "al dente" means, who doesn't?
I laugh in response to what bubbles over
I can't believe how long it took
I count on you
I couldn't do this without you,
without your hands.

Jumping across,
steps are closer together now
and I have a better feeling of my tomorrow.
I know that this is right.
I know that it can't be taken away this time.
I can finally sleep to dream.