Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.
I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.
Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.
My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:
This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.
I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.
Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.
Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside
until I am wholesome,
until I am new.