we re-create ourselves constantly.
(we, as if it's a choice).
rivers have rapids and turns and sharp rocks and smooth places.
we're all rivers
never the same
i wasn't the same
inconsistent and illogical.
words, medicine.
i write when i've been poisoned, near death i reach knives
deep inside my chest and my stomach and my skull to spill blood on this paper until i'm somewhat healed.
these days life has been kinder and kinder and so suddenly it seems these
aren't the words I need right now.
i write when i feel, feeling things that have no name, they're lost, i'm lost, drifting in obscurity, heartache, pulsing heart only beating for a ray of light, and it
isn't me right now.
i feel, you, myself, free, new, in love with you
right now is good, right now is right
i don't write the way i used to, i can't and
i don't need to.
that's a good thing, for now, perhaps
life is unpredictable, gray, fuzzy like an old tv screen, i'm not sure what's next
i'll be back when it does
i'll be back when it fades again, as i so often do, fade
when i come back, i'll bleed and i'll write again and they'll come so easily, pen and paper begging me to decorate them with darkness and confusion while i ache for them to understand
for now, my words are more alive than ever circulating through my veins, lost in your touch, on the tip of your nose, here in this house, i'll go find them and we'll keep them, no paper in sight, suspended in air, you and me we'll keep them there