the length of waves

Inertia. That’s what I am. I am the physical object resistant to any change in its state of motion, including changes to my speed. My direction. It’s me and my tendency to keep moving in a straight line at this constant velocity that slows for no one. That speeds for no one. Just one that merely exists. One that simply powers through. One purely fueled by resiliency and indifference. And am I memory? Like the tugging on your shadow that bends when the sun gets in your eyes. Are we constantly recording the moments we can classify on pull tabs that replicate the solar system. And have I fallen off track out of orbit and in to the dirt. A diamond in the dirt dream that trapped me in the soles of those traveling places I never wanted to go. In the hands of my vices, on rooftops, my voice slows and I climb in to windows that I had mistaken for doors.  I will always be looking in.  And if eyes are the windows to the soul why have I just learned the color of mine? You cannot build a castle out of words. What was once Braille, each bump in the page in the road I felt are now simple scribbles, a fish tail, a misstep with an over correction. And I am not your catalyst. And I have broken the hearts of others to keep mine intact because sometimes good people make bad choices. I tell run on sentences about you because I don’t want anything to do with you to end and I cannot write you a love poem because I do not know how.