singing to myself,
i alone am
the moon,
hidden between the crook of my elbow and the nape of my neck,
somewhere in the
punctuation of a sigh.
a full spin of the ball of confusion finds us kneeling at a riverbed,
waiting for more leaves to fall.
it is autumn again.
and, again.
still, i am dreaming of
bones
and dirt
and what it would be like to fly
and find the landing
catch me, soft, like sand.
what it was like to stretch into sinewy corners and
find water.
what it was like to expand like a flame; hot. wild.
still.
i am telling a story
that is beginning to bore me.
a pale sadness closes around a more tender rage and
there is no more room left to move.
nothing changed when you left,
except everything.
now my hands meekly shape this prayer
into gratitude.
in some future voice, joy will explain it all to me
and, together,
you and i
might laugh.
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