Empty words -
That’s what it is.
An answer
To something more concrete than a dream,
More true than a hope.

Not empty, -
Void of meaning.
Full instead -
Overbrimming with potential
A hook to reality.

Those are the words
Of my mind -
Rigid and tense,
Controlling, compelling,
Raw and imperfect.

But they are empty
And they are me.
Acceptance is love,
As it is pride.

To love me
Is not to pick and choose
But to be and
Believe.
Embrace.
Accept.

I feel my pain, I live it,
I am it.
Here I am.

I am also more.
Empty words,
Full with life.

An answer.

Night was descending
on the tonsured heads,
terracotta robes,
clasping the palms, hiding the seeds
of earth.

Against a ban on lips
for belonging truly.
Blissful. The squids settle in the weeds
of overbrimming sea of arms.

Blood was red, brown and pale.
oozing from the slit eyes,
soaking the green voices, herbs and sad kisses.
In the death, your name will be engraved on your shoes.

The steps were small
but shadows were very long on the ice.
The stings unflawed, did their job.
Suddenly you go
in anaphylactic shock.

What happens now you aren’t here to tend the tree in your room —
Will your light still germinate, will you lay your seed to bloom?
Am I to become keeper, gardener of your belonging —
To turn your memory into a greenhouse, spilling, overbrimming?
Am I to delude myself into believing, that your leaving was too soon?
Will you come to me at twilight or can you only be seen at noon —
Dappled gently amongst the grove, a frayed bouquet of sunbeam —
Will you ride the tops of our river to the source of my stream?
Am I relegated to meet you — asleep — in daydream —
Or can I spot you on the backs of spoons — at an angle — which you gleam?
Is that shine no longer special, has the metal lost its lustre —
I beg you, tell me — how much more force of will must I muster?
If I close the curtain now, would you call it premature —
Or would you be okay with me just not quite closing the door?