the good years.
2006-07-03 12:37 p.m.
fear, and skepticism also, and all of theconsideration that goes in, to come up answerless, to call my lungs again
to oxygen, my heart to blood, my hands to the keys
takes more effort than it should, and i am
gently covered, and i am shady sundays, and i am
city streets, learning the cracks that keep them going, learning
my own feet, my own feelings in the moment.
step out
each movement hesitates, balancing
on the lack of its ancestors, and i am so afraid
that i do not speak, stay awake just thinking of him, planning the coming day. i pick
these words delicately, uncertain of their meaning (subjective), and i enunciate to make the picture perfect - i can
only trust myself to such narrow extents, and even then
i know my weakness, my own instability
as a substance, as a being
now remade
now replaced
for once aware of consequences.