it’s been a while
since I wrote something—
something to name
the numbness in me.

I haven’t gotten better,
but I haven’t gotten worse.
days blend into each other,
work blurs into static,
time marches on.

I don’t feel a thing—
or maybe
I feel everything.

a numb little mouse,
trapped in my room,
I wake up fine,
then spend the day
trying not to fall apart.

a text from a friend—
and I smile,
like maybe the day
won’t drown me after all.

but then night comes.
I stare at the moon
and wonder:

what is this feeling
boiling inside me?

emotions—so fragile,
spinning like yin and yang
but blurred,
lost.

and still, I wonder:
why is it
so empty
inside?

They still carry love,
from lives once lived,
walking paths with
belief in destiny.

Their love so surreal,
kissed by every wound.

She cloaked in petals,
with a bleeding heart.

Just as tree waits
for spring to bloom,
he waits for her,
to heal him.

If someone asked where i lived id say within the space that forms right before you deeply smile.
i’d tell them it’s a dangerous, deceptive driveway.
i’d tell them coming out of town, it’s a right down everything avenue. Then, a hard left about half a mile into the woods, you’ll know you’re there when you reach absolutely nothing. at. all.