I pull a bit of thread and unravel my broken days. My nights aching with fear
and an anguish that has no place to go.
When I leave the windows ajar,
A soft, quiet shimmer — vaporous and lazy.
a lost moth on edge
whispers and flutters inside.
Not light enough to fight the darkness that has collected all the shadows inside me.
But bright enough to let me know shine is here.
Filing through the books stacked neatly at the roadside bookstall, I am startled by a familiar butterfly. It hovers near me once — saying hello — before flying off, sniffing pages on its way.
It left behind a soft bloom of joy. Butterfly joy is easily bruised, though. I don’t let myself warm to it too earnestly in that way that the heart grabs hold of all accidental happy. I make room for it — silently breathless — the way that one does when someone you love sits next to you unexpectedly and you wish they never get up again.
The rain soaked through the pages of one of my pretentious hang-ups — my writer’s notebook (used primarily to scribble urgently in coffee shops, sipping mocha lattes).
Ink bleeds. Makes the letters weep and eventually tears the page under the weight of all urgency — indiscriminate between the real and performed.
At first, the haggard and stained hardcover seemed poetic in its own right. (One of my entries, written in red ink, bled a dramatic pink all over the page and the few underneath — begging to be turned into a metaphor. For example, the “word blood flow” and so on.)
But then, the chore of finding a dry patch of page to scribble across became too tedious for the poetry to be worth it. Damn the rain.
Books drying my words on my windowsill.