To have forgotten
a thousand mornings of blaring sun

here, with April on the horizon
and a flit of transitional snow

my heart pulsing in my hands
my soul pulsing in my heart

here, with a new day on the horizon
here, with new places to go

to have remembered
a thousand evenings, a thousand endings

holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it

I feel that same Sunday chaos
in the kitchen, fingers digging
into orange skin

a trailing scent of spring
citrus blooms into the air

here, in this moment
with one hand
and terrible penmanship
I write my name

and with the other
I hold the feeling
of missing things

Here, where they said something about the wind, and I opened my mouth wide for a storm that tasted like sailboats. There, where I stood behind curtains and danced around the idea of being free. Here, where I hopped between puddles, trying to find pockets in the road to bury the rocks from all the silence in my throat. There, where I first learned how it feels to hear yourself, to forgive yourself. Here, where I searched the shoreline, looking for a moon in the reflection and found a fragmented self. There, where I finally stuck my hand into the big belly of fear. Here, where I first learned that it was ok if you didn’t land on your feet. There, where I began to appreciate the weighted days more than light ones. Here, where I tore apart my words and swallowed their jagged edges. There, where I let things go, let things be. Here, where they said something about the wind and I kept my mouth shut, letting the storm pass.

You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.

If we could hazard a guess, tomorrow is the day everything changes. That's the famous phrase. Something about the way the pink roses on the counter stand so tall and proud. When I was young I envisioned I would be like them someday. Deep into my womanhood, tully aware of the force I have to push with to keep my shoulders up. But I would do it, that's what I believed. These days it's enough to hold the weight of breathing, and enough to move limb after limb. To keep up with the minutes and still meet them up ahead with a gracious smile. On repeat, morning sun to evening moon. Some days my limbs they move me, others I move with them too. That's how it goes. Sometimes the roses are drooping, sometimes they bloom instead. All the time they are alive and present, standing, even as they shed.

there it was,
the whole world
at your fingertips
and yet you chose
all the roads of broken glass
and abandoned winds
to plant this pain
in places that ache
for new trees
right here in this home
in this silenced soul
in these tired bones
somehow you chose
to walk with me instead
of running ahead

there it was,
all that I know
about love