by Amy Hamed
People in each other’s lives are fluids.
They come in mixtures of liquid and gas,
floating till they find a place to settle within someone,
as something, anything,
A loved one, a friend,
let’s say an inhabitant…
We’re all fluids,
of different colors,
levitating, hovering around each other,
repelling one another,
we interact but we don’t mix.
Even when you, – let’s say a purple, slick suspension –
have settled in the core of a glimmering crystally liquid,
that you can’t quite tell if it’s white or silver,
you don’t mix.
The white simply engulfs you.
There’s a membrane,
ever so thin,
that you can barely tell it’s there,
I don’t know what’s it made of, you? Them? Perhaps the particles that got stunned for a second and then couldn’t decide where they belonged,
and when you first go in, well, come as you are, coz yes it’s created for you but you’re the one who shapes it, It’ll contain you on your terms,
the saddest part is when you leave,
once your heat is gone, the membrane containing you, stretching with you, dancing your dance and following your lead, it loses the elasticity and goes rigid
It retains your shape as it last captured it before you fled, and it stills. It forms a statue, a void within.
that silvery white can’t float as smooth with this kink in its core
You’ll go be free, you’ll change form, you’ll settle then flow, burst, clog, run. It’s not your fault, it’s what we do, we’re all fluid,
The only shape we’re ever caught in is that statue
the one we left behind in the core of someone who’s crystally silver now seems like dull gray…