intuitive, like poetry. that’s how i want my days to feel. not that i’ve touched poetry recently. it used to be intuitive. i’m out of practice probably. i haven’t tried in recent memory. i… i honestly don’t remember the last time. that’s not right, is it?

intuitive. like a heart-piercing song unfolding. a child’s path through an august playground. a dancer’s feet in a drunken crowd. your hands tracing lines on a lover’s back. intuitive. natural. instinctive. movement like breathing.

“love is all about timing. it’s no good meeting the right person too soon or too late.”

i used to have this notion, a preconceived notion that love should be intuitive; it should fall into place with ease and grace. but i’m a little bit older now, and i’ve learned through my own life and the lives of others… love is a fucking mess. it’s a calamity the likes of which couldn’t have been imagined by the afflicted individuals. the trembling hands of chaos assembling a snowflake. a beautiful accident waiting to happen. and often, it doesn’t. and sometimes only for a few moments.

and that’s the magic, really. that people share these imperfect moments of warmth, few and far between though they might be.

and then it’s gone.

or it passes before you realize it’s leaving your grasp.

just like that. as suddenly as the possibility appears, it fades. or eventually, you just let go. of the daydream. of the fantasy. of the warmth, real or perceived. and the magic is relegated to fond memories. poetry fodder. single grains of salt fusing to a kernel of hope that one day magic will sprout again in gardens we have yet to set foot.

on my way to work in the mornings i pass by these orange arrows. a bunch of lines too. and some circles.

the spot is only a block away from my house. and i might not notice except there’s shattered glass peppering the sidewalk. and it crunches under my shoes. so i look down and notice the glass. and i think to look at the arrows.

a week or so ago, a six-year-old was killed by a drunk driver. it was a hit and run. they crossed the median and hit a car going the opposite direction. “crossed…” they jumped a curb, barrelled through a grassy divider, and drove into oncoming traffic. the other car must have seen it a second or so before impact, because they tried to get over to the right lane. but they were hit before they could get out of the way.

i know this because that’s what the arrows tell me.

there are arrows showing the path of the drunk driver. and there are arrows showing the path of the car carrying the child. and there are markings indicating where those two sets of arrows collided.

it makes my head quiet. when i see the arrows. it’s like a tragic moment in time, captured and recorded by some painted markings on the street. it was on the news and everything, that’s how i found out a kid was killed. well, actually i found out when a friend called to tell me what the accident was that had closed off that part of the street.

i can’t walk by without looking at the arrows. i don’t know. it gets to me. not in a super-depresso way or anything. i don’t start weeping.

and i guess i don’t stop and stare like the first time. but still. it gets to me.

somewhere in this city, peoples lives are changed forever in ways i can’t even imagine. parents have lost a child. friends and family have suffered a terrible loss. and someone has to live with the fact that they were the cause.

i feel all this because every day i pass by these orange arrows. a bunch of lines too. and some circles.