prose

I sit here in my white, wicker chair and view my world. My chair. My world. What is this desire to own things? Can't they simply be out there and we all take turns using them? The difference between my and the is as big as the space I now feel between us since you slammed the phone, said those things. Vacated the safe place we found. Now we. Not I or you but we. Again, the vastness sucks me in. I swirl and tumble, swirl and tumble. Finally giving in to the circular motion and the way my limbs are now curved instead of straight and my hair stands on end instead of falling down. I want to stop the swirling and climb out to do all the things I love but there's safety in the repetition, the emptiness. It's just me, space and movement. Nothing else to roll or bang against me.