there's a wonderful stream of silence that rushes between us. we move slowly down the avenue, while the wind tries to tell me a secret, but my ears are covered by my woolen scarf, wrapped around my head like a balaklava. I do like this, I like being in silence.
a conversation
death starts at any point in time
but it feels different depending on where you are at.
it has a conversation with you,
and you have a conversation with it.
and you don't always have the same appreciation of things.
of music, of the touch of someone you love.
of pain. of misery.
it vacuums out the light in your empty spaces.
but it gives the space to fill it up again.
it feels like at certain times it comes back to me
and follows me around until i manage
to sit down with it and have a brandy.
i don't know if it will ever get easier.
mulch
sand blowing against the grain,
patterned,
leaving me breathless for a minute
while the forest rests:
pine resin pools in the depths of our minds
i can sense someone will light a fire
to keep us warm,
to keep us close.
presentation
i cling on to something so needy as
people, trying to convince myself
i can be different.
what i can be is new. i can be mistaken,
a beginner, a rookie,
a child, young.
there's more to that, learning the pace of your own needs.
but somehow i feel like i need to show up like someone else.
but it's me who got me here,
who created the opportunities, fought the fight,
made time to grow.
it's me they want there, the person they will listen to.
to keep denying that space is to deny the good that comes with it.