Hush... tremble.
Would you choose sound or touch?
Along with old colors flying
comes a familiar rush -
a face, a fight, a crutch.
You leaned too far into the
backs of your supporters - is there
no word but which comes from
blind reporters?
You're clutching cold into your fingers -
wait, wait, wait and count to
three - there's always more than
you can think-of-when-the-
situation-starts-to-sink-just-out-of-
reach

Y­our grasp is slipping, questions ripping
away unanswered
Let go, let go, let go the countless
moments-that-you'd-like-to-claim-
are-yours-without-the­-shame
of unopened doors

There's no one to blame.
You've flown off course-
There is no course, there is only
finding the rest of the pieces -
There always will be a mess
and some creases -
however long your reach is -

At the end of it all, the moments
you remember are the ones
spent looking away from your feet.

Breathe in, breathe out, look up, repeat.