This creature…
She lurks just round the corner
Her lips painted to perfection and pursed to prissiness
Her hips hosting hands, polished nails the color of Hell’s fire
Her eyes wild and dark, so full and deep, intricate curtains over the windows to her soul
Her hair cascading wild but under the chokehold of her need for control, constantly
And her entire existence… just

This creature…
She is a creature of the night, no doubt
But she is an essence of the broad sunlight
And she was designed to be the center of attention
But is simultaneously inclined to favor solitude
She craves affection, attention, validation, and such
But values her independence, her privacy so very much

This creature…
She knows no name.
She knows herself.

The non-dominant slightly less coordinated one.
The one with more knuckle scars;
the expendable one.

There is a healing pencil eraser sized scar
where the capitate bone
(the part where your thumb sprouts from your hand)
should be and is the last time I checked.

I know how I got this one,
but I'm not sure how much longer the memory of
my flesh separating from my flesh will last.
Scars fade, memories disappear and,
hands tend to stay the same.

My left hand is often ignored and will continue to be,
until at last on my death bed I'll look down,
notice the scars again
and be grateful for the dutiful service
my slightly less coordinated hand provided me.

crickets
following the first
a multitude

before the last
of the light is gone
crickets

What you stand witness to in others
Is strengthened in them
By the power of your observation

The fish bakes
in the sweltering heat of the sun
Its prison
a plastic tupperware container
three feet from the water.
It's jaws SNAP open
and shut as it gasps for air,
struggling
against death.
It's dying
baking
smell
lingers
over to me
as I sit and stare
while eating my
juicy green apple
I packed as a snack

Though not blinded, they saw all that was before them.
For within every length did a life linger.
Never ones to trim a singular moment they just
brush each moment delicately everyday..

For if not, tangled breath would linger to dead roots.
They were methodical in there daily routine.
But sometimes no matter the care, follicles do depart
and gently fall for an eternity, expired strands fade.

Collecting on every observation, tears do fall.
catching on strands gifting moments of longevity.
They see our every moment, contemplating our
decisions, never wording, only watching our lives