transience became a perpetual state in december
unpack one suitcase directly into another,
forget a brush and lose those perfect-fit jeans,
after all, organized chaos attracts disorganized chaos
in the name of love we wage on,
through flu ridden airports and
endless loops of the drive through gorst,
the highway is grooving ridges just for these tires
whispers of being tired, but this feeling is sadness,
the clinical kind, despite no appointments for therapy,
just not that kind of girl, that kind of blue, that kind of real
wishing for wings, shrinking and growing simultaneously
this is it! this is what you asked for,
change upon change upon change,
no sense of permanence, wild adventures -
grounding will become it's own kind of freedom