Relax,
take comfort in the discomfort of your eggs hatching,
dress in your favorite color and celebrate
the mundanity
of prayer.
Try to remember
the sunsets you’ve witnessed
sitting a car.
Turn into a splendid rain
and smear the sins you carry
all over the city.
Explain yourself, but only if you want.
Bathe in full Florida Water essence,
“I am free of ghosts, free of you.”
Repeat.
Where is the line?
Where do mountains sing if not within the monstrous silence of nothing?
A bird screams and fluffs itself, a child does the same, a nest is built by parents coming and going between the traffic of existence, but not always, not always.
Where do you go when you’re not near me?
I am so tired of bleeding.
Nine more years, no more years—we are afraid of the clasp of clouds, the hollering of hovering unidentified objects exploiting what doesn’t die.
Breath is how we entered and it is the thing we take for granted, until it slows and we are reminded, of its importance.
