Ylem (poem #30)

We are all deficient.
We obsess over documenting ourselves so that
we don’t forget how much it hurt to get to where we’re at.
People talk of sadness as if it’s a sickness,
unable to see how critical it is to taste it
and treat it as if it’s
just another texture
in your mouth.
Lately,
my favorite time
is the midnight air,
lifting ruinous thoughts that the hours brought.
I try to feel out the shapes of my face
and touch the curves of my mouth
where all pessimism lives.
All the parts erupted,
caressed with the jitteriness of my eight track
fingertips planting seeds
into my now drought-tolerant
silvery gray leaves.

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