I find myself reaching
For hands
For hope
For the words I’ve been meaning to convey
And all I find is widespread nothingness.
In all honesty
I was sitting next to his door with my face in my hands when I confessed, “I keep forgetting to breathe. I keep holding my breath and I have to remind myself to inhale and exhale.” I think about that often, there’s a lot of secondary thoughts to that one. But really what I mean to say is that the act of breathing is supposed to be reflexive, In the way writing is to a poet. But each night as I remind myself to breathe I try to construct lines of poetry in my mind. And I find myself restless. There’s too many eyes, real or perceived. And the red notebook by my bed still has engravings of letters long given away. etched into the page. In between practiced breaths and stilled fingertips I imagine those letters combusting, bursting into flames until nothing is left but ash. But Ash. A return of pieces I had given away. And even in my imagination there’s still a spark left inside of me. I want to write something beautiful. Something so aching and familiar that I can recognize the fingerpr
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