The Love Swarm

Sometimes you feel a certain way, and it has nothing to do with how you want to feel.

These answers are next to me as warm honey bombs exploding in half-time. I see them as glittering globs that stick against the wall and ceiling. They rub up against my face and drip over my jaw and down my neck. They are sticky and sweet and leave scars which has nothing to do with how I want to feel. They feel painful. 

But I don't know what to do. I am so lost in this honeycomb, where each hexagon tunnels somewhere far into time�" somewhere that doesn't end but continues. But how to continue. How does anyone continue? 

But there will pass the swarm. There will pass the swarm as glints of moonstruck wings and keen eyes. All around this room where I type with skeleton hands. How do they continue�" down through the vent above my door and lengthwise across to the open window, where they pour as a steady stream? How can I follow?

So lost and running but never out of breath because I don't breath in the catacombs of my mind. So paralyzed and itching to move but knowing not one nerve impulse will find completion and instead buzzing horrendously as if my entire body is laced with sharp cutting wire. So fed up with trying to express anything and knowing that this stomach will grow full and never hunger again. So stuck and gooey and wanting to be away but where is there ever to be?

This is a dark time.

These are real dark times.

But the swarm of bees are so sweetly chattering as they pass through my room, swaddled in their floating velvet fur. 

"I love you Mike,"

"I love you dear, the kids too,"

"Love,"

"Love"

"We all love each other even if sometimes there is bad"

"Love wins, doesn't it?"

I love this swarm. I just can't be there with them now. These honey bombs are keeping me in place. But who knows? Who know where I will be soon. I want to be with them. Because I love them.