I sometimes read what I’ve written in the past with questions for the older perspective
Surprised that I can write with an elegant voice and flow when my mind is in a deep black hole 🕳
It’s as if the narrative pulls me from sinking further
Writing, a hand of a friend
Reaching in from the ledge
My heart is in my fucking throat
As I’m choking on the absence of love
And visualizing it everywhere.
I watch as blissful lovers glide across the sidewalks
Buried in nourishing love, flowers sprout tall from their skulls
One waters and the other weeds
In the shadows of cool brick, I drool over their shared peace
Making my ego beg for someone to look at me as if I held more light than the sun
She’s not like you. She’s not an author or a poet. Her mind and body hold the art. She lives in it and as it.
It fucking pours out of her.