Guest Posts {5} ~ Hop Song

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This is a guest post from Woodsy ~

Not many people knew about my romance with Fawn. We kept it wrapped up secret in a little pendant which neither of us took off, guarded by one of those secret floral combinations that the old forest scribes used to write into flower petals.

Not that most people would have been interested enough to break the code.

You’d think, given the nature of our relationship, that we’d have been the talk of the town back then, given the way we used to hop everywhere like a couple of demented cartoon bunnies.

Surprising, though, most people seemed unable or unwilling to see us, hopping down the street, hopping through the supermarket aisles, hopping into all the little offices where all the little regulations were implemented in an attempt to frame our lives in more static terms.

We hopped through phone calls from people who had better ideas about what we should be doing with our lives.

We hopped through conversations where people explained what was wrong with the world and why society would start to function so much better if people learned to sit still in chairs.

We listened to people for whom life was all about money and responsibility and special lenses (available at a discount through mail order catalogues) that allowed you to twist and shift the light around you, so that people only saw the most appropriate use of time and finance and effort when they were scrutinising your files.

We hopped down filthy alleys, looking for things we’d been forced to throw away and would probably never find again.

We hopped love circles ’til our feet bled, usually around people who wept and smiled every time they saw us, and showered us with kisses and made us stumble, then hauled us back to our feet and pushed us out the door in the hope that our hop dance might leave a kinder rhythm on the world’s stale air.

Most of the time, we would never see such people again. Or if we did, there would be only the tiniest specks of recognition, damp behind eyes in which all the lights had been turned off.

We hopped through the woods, over soft mossy carpets and dry bark trampolines and up the side of massive trees.

We hopped along beaches, tapping out a shell-crunch drumbeat against the bolder melodies of the tide and splattering phosphorescent fireworks in the roaring air as the spray bounced off our bouncing bodies.

We hopped over each other’s skin, stretching as we did so, opening up places that had lingered unspoken and undiscovered in our consciousness. We punctuated each other’s aches and passions with our secret bunny-foot choreography, and entire galaxies began to tremble at the pulsating warmth of our embrace.

We sang so deep and so wild, the Universe still talks about us over coffee and burnt-out stars.

Right now, however, I just walk a lot, generally through places I don’t want to be, waiting for the moment when I can’t take any more and the little hopping backpack in the corner of my room becomes too heavy to ignore.

The phrase “I wish I could help you” echoes everywhere.

But what they really wish is that the hopping would stop.

I have Fawn’s heartbeat locked in a pendant. I have the snores of sleeping galaxies in my feet. I have words that bounce along the ripples of lakes like stones skimming across a page. Every time they tear the rhythm out of me, I unlock my secret place and claw a piece of it back.

But sometimes, in the middle of all their probes and prods, I start to hate it too.

To see more of this poet’s work:

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