I pull the curtain

open, just to stall for time,


and study the fog.

Propagate some imagination seeds,
grow them on the sunny windowsill in your head,
water them with words,
and watch the stories bloom

A friend does not beat

around the bush, she's honest --


which can be painful.

I like to lie on

the floor, thinking, with a book --


upon my stomach.

I rest.
To not wake.

I only enjoy things
when they happen organically now
bars, new drinks,
a warm hug,
waking up
without the alarm.

Nostalgia and melancholy
what a heavy burden,
to carry a weighted heart.
But my arms are getting stronger,
learning to grip,
to lift,
to cradle it with grace.

I don’t know who to thank,
but I’m grateful.

Never going back again,
that old bridge
on a snowy day.

But I'm there every other day
inside of my mind.

Ain't even my friends,
not half of them.
Not anymore.

But I'm certain that
we used to be.

No one comes here
because
no one goes

To read a book,
is a sharp descent,
and a swim in the author's vanity,
to write one,
takes a different skill,
I think it's called insanity