I stare at the empty side of my bed, and wonder about the things I would tell you if you were laying right Next to me
(1) when I was little a flowerpot fell from the balcony and i stared at the beautiful mess all the pieces had made until I became sad it wasn't until I got much older that I started feeling sad for the balcony too
(2) I remember in November Knuckles turning purple as the leafs turned orange My hand, a bruised, gnarled, yellow and indigo mess How did this amazingly unfortunate injury happen? I was punishing the walls That saw my loss But stayed quiet
(3) the world is too bright, so I filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds. I am drowning, but not from the ocean's relentless caresses, but from the world's relentless stresses: beauty that is measured and calculated, saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays, a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.
I swim to where the water meets the clouds. where the water is still water, and I am still me.