a midnight stream of consciousness. because i needed it.
well, goodness. i haven't come back to this in a while. i'm just feeling a little bit empty this week, is all. and not just because of the gaping holes where my wisdom teeth were. there are too many goodbyes going on, in both the literal and figurative sense. why must all the conversations that mean the most be destined to become long-distance communication? just a rushing train and billowing steam and a thousand hands waving gloves and handkerchiefs. i know i will meet more people, as everybody is quick to say. new people, new experiences, new adventures, and it isn't to say that they won't be great, and it isn't to say that i'm not raring to fly, but there is no rule that different has to mean better and that the new must replace the old.
(antiques, dear.
the ticking
of your heart is a pocket-
watch universe
tucked snug
in dusty velvet
the edges burnished
by my emotional thumbs)
so you see, some part of me is still wishing for love. or even like at this point. this week is poetry of teacups and their patterns and clocks and the way the highway glows before the car behind you comes over a hill and how your breath catches over a bird fallen from its nest and pink bicycles with bells and midnight alone in a bright room and burnt cookies and red berries. and it doesn't add up to anything whole at all, but i want to hang onto it all the same in case next week is less of a jigsaw rather than more.
and on that note, sweet dreams to all.
(my streams of consciousness have become infused with my constant poeming over the past year; in short, i am not crazy)
(antiques, dear.
the ticking
of your heart is a pocket-
watch universe
tucked snug
in dusty velvet
the edges burnished
by my emotional thumbs)
so you see, some part of me is still wishing for love. or even like at this point. this week is poetry of teacups and their patterns and clocks and the way the highway glows before the car behind you comes over a hill and how your breath catches over a bird fallen from its nest and pink bicycles with bells and midnight alone in a bright room and burnt cookies and red berries. and it doesn't add up to anything whole at all, but i want to hang onto it all the same in case next week is less of a jigsaw rather than more.
and on that note, sweet dreams to all.
(my streams of consciousness have become infused with my constant poeming over the past year; in short, i am not crazy)