how weightless?

i ran my white shoes
to pieces-- 
soul peel-
ing free-- rubber
tearing & laces
gripping tightly
to a god of double
knots & gravel trails--
white-knuckles & desperate
i pulled them off
to rest in
the corner-- mud
caked in their teeth--
they tell each other
stories of 
the taste of
sidewalks & the 
wet love of august
rain-- heavy with
my coat-hanger body--
i listen but
i don't ask questions--
will they remember 
the time we all
sat as one
perched on the limestone
rocks towards
north lookout--
will they remember
my fear of snakes
& the boy who 
i loved the idea of--
when i fall
asleep will they 
tug each other's
tongue to whisper--
recount the first
times i wore them-- 
their skin tense 
with holding me as
we learned to run--
what kind of lover
teaches you how
to escape-- 
to sprint
into tabernacle 
forest--
unafraid of
never returning--
i could never
dispose of them--
my white sneaks--
stones lodged
in their teeth-- 
laughing again 
about how often
i tripped on the gritty
shores of Maine
where we stepped
& snapped blue sea glass
beneath us--
i'm always like this
i can never part 
with shoes & at
my parents
house i have a closet 
full of such ghosts--
clamoring over
each other-- searching
for their mirror-halves--
grey boots &
bear-foot slippers 
& orphaned flip-flops
& my first pair
of chuck taylors--
sharpie scribble
poetry & street
chewed shoe laces--
there are questions 
i am saving for
them each--
like if they could feel
the weightlessness
in the way a seven
year old girl walks
& how many times
i listened to Sargent
Pepper & if
i was only a refraction
of rainbow light
gleaming from
the surface of a CD--
maybe they get
each other's stories
confused from sitting
there for so long--
maybe my grey suede
boots forget 
pink gum on the 
floor of the mall--
forget sweaty 
feet of spring--
do my chuck taylors
remember the 
ecstasy of a distortion
peddle & Dad
trying to teach us how
to work the hi-hat--
do they hum with
their thread-bare
tongues--
link laces &
share the same
exhilaration of 
carrying a body--
i know 
it is inevitable
that i will
eventually
have to get rid of
them all & their
thin faces
& chapped lips--
that eventually
their stories
will
blur into
my own callous
heels & my
new shoes
doe-eyed & wide-open
in the headlights
of a skeleton
like mine-- still
picking thumb tacks
from his heels--
clasping me
they plead
for us
to take a walk--
to run &
teach them 
the bell chime of
my knees--the 
quick pace of my
breath thick
with frost--the 
heaviness of
the clouds coming
to perch on my shoulders--
i know
the way they
gather
of stories
is also 
their fixed trajectory
toward the back of the 
closet-- the corner
of the room
just like my
white sneakers 
still 
rambling
about 
the tops of
mountains--
will you sleep
when i do?
will you 
tell me what
ground my feet
belong?
keep my soul
from thinning--