words aren't enough
There is nothing that makes me feel so nostalgic and bittersweet and restless and safe and content and aching and conflicted as hearing the neighborhood kids playing outside. Sometimes I take a look, sunlight streaming through the window and making me dizzy because I never quite made it when they gave the last call on the space-time continuum train. Other times I actually am outside, pulling weeds, heat seeping into my bones in not an entirely unpleasant manner, sitting on the ground thinking I should know better, but what good is knowledge anyway. (That’s why we do laundry.) But the sound. Just the sound is enough. There are times I feel the sensation expanding slowly, slowly, slowly, froth overflowing the rim of a highball glass. That things aren’t right and yet are. Maybe it’s an illusion. I don’t mind.