toss & turn. taciturn.
I.
"where are you now?"
oh darling. i am lost.
II.
the sun sets here in fury, scraping the sky with sharp talons, clouds bleeding and bleeding. everything is still. everything is so still.
in the space between awake and sleep, visions unfold behind my eyelids. what-could-have-beens. i tell my father about all of the pain he has brought into this world. about what he should have done. about what he still could do. i am willing to forgive him if only he apologizes, tries to make it all right. and he does.
these, these are my fairytales. no, they are not idyllic, not in the least. but i spin them through my fingers and they don't draw blood. that is enough for me.
III.
spring hesitates, caught between one bird and another, scuttling for cover under the veil of dusk. i can smell it, feel it under my nails and behind my eyelids & earlobes. the concrete assaults my spine & scapula as i lie in the sidewalk, desperate for just a whisper more of warmth, fingers to lips & exhale.
yesterday i perched in a tree [hiding: sunglasses. fingers to lips & exhale.] and lifted one hand, ring-clinking wave. she didn't recognize me until distance compressed. i didn't consciously expect recognition. i wonder if i'm fading, faded from the winter.
IV.
i vacillate between insomnia and somnolence, periods of deep sleep and periods of extended tension
[toss & turn; taciturn.]
i don't have anything to say for myself. i don't have anything to show for myself.
[i shouldn't lie. i have normative statements & a metronome. stillness. waiting. i am waiting.]
i should sleep. [with love trailing my fingers and hair, inked behind my eyelids.]
"where are you now?"
oh darling. i am lost.
II.
the sun sets here in fury, scraping the sky with sharp talons, clouds bleeding and bleeding. everything is still. everything is so still.
in the space between awake and sleep, visions unfold behind my eyelids. what-could-have-beens. i tell my father about all of the pain he has brought into this world. about what he should have done. about what he still could do. i am willing to forgive him if only he apologizes, tries to make it all right. and he does.
these, these are my fairytales. no, they are not idyllic, not in the least. but i spin them through my fingers and they don't draw blood. that is enough for me.
III.
spring hesitates, caught between one bird and another, scuttling for cover under the veil of dusk. i can smell it, feel it under my nails and behind my eyelids & earlobes. the concrete assaults my spine & scapula as i lie in the sidewalk, desperate for just a whisper more of warmth, fingers to lips & exhale.
yesterday i perched in a tree [hiding: sunglasses. fingers to lips & exhale.] and lifted one hand, ring-clinking wave. she didn't recognize me until distance compressed. i didn't consciously expect recognition. i wonder if i'm fading, faded from the winter.
IV.
i vacillate between insomnia and somnolence, periods of deep sleep and periods of extended tension
[toss & turn; taciturn.]
i don't have anything to say for myself. i don't have anything to show for myself.
[i shouldn't lie. i have normative statements & a metronome. stillness. waiting. i am waiting.]
i should sleep. [with love trailing my fingers and hair, inked behind my eyelids.]