I read and re-regret the rest
I rest and read the restlessness
I regret the test of sleeplessness
They readily urge me to take a breath…
Happy Nothing, my love!
Happy Day of Extra.
I hope your No-Holiday
is kind to you.
I just wanted to say
In a special way as we celebrate
(Normally I’d have a gift for you, because you deserve it, but seeing as it’s always Nothing-Special season here
It wouldn’t do to shower you with gifts. Others would wonder
Just what’s going on. I don’t think they see how splendid No-Special-Celebration-Day
[also known as every day]
is with you
Because you’re always with me, so how could they?)
The weirdest part of it all is the massively personal nature of growing up. Every human being in the history of the planet has met that moment in life where they paused and thought, terrified, about the future rushing so dangerously toward them. And every human has realized in an instant how terribly near adulthood had grown, and how temporary everything really is. How insignificant. And despite the frequency of these soul-shattering, intensely huge moments; despite this, every single time a child’s heart breaks, to be replaced by the heart of an adult, it feels like the first time. The only time. Every transitioning human believes for a moment that their journey has been the only journey, that this moment is unique to them and them alone; that they, somehow, are different in their jarring realization of reality. And in a way, they are right, despite the likenesses of every other terrified teen that has gone before. Now, for the current petrified youth, it’s just a question of growing up in such a way that the growing is toward the light; and taking that stone cold terror and making it something good and productive for the world to hold onto after our wisp-of-smoke lives are over.
The shadow on my neck dilutes
The color of my skin;
The beads and shells that twist about
And cling to life within.
Lost in shelves and swallowed by time,
Long after my burdens have ceased.
Picked up by a teen who wanders and sings
And blows off the dust which grew on its pages
In the years I’ve been consumed by my dreams.
I like to think my far off friend
Will hold the book close to their chest;
And wander, in awe, through my joys and regrets,
And remember me long after I’m dead.
He was thinking of her
She was thinking of him.
In the dreamland night their spirits met
And danced by the river again.
She fell asleep with smiling lips
While he thought sighing of them;
And she laughed like a child when the dreamland night
Spun her closer to him.
So they twirled and fell and rose a spell
And danced the dreamland through;
And not til noisy daybreak had broke
Did their twining feet skip a move.
She woke, a frown within her eyes
And he, searching desperate for them;
She closed her gaze in distant hope
That it might spin her closer to him.
But alas, the morning cold and clear
Denied the two their dance.
And the distance between their sleeping hearts
Left them both in a dreamland trance.
Cold room empty room big room
Others drift in, trepidation spilling from their breath
We take our seats and plant our feet and try to understand
Everything we’ve ever learned like words in blurry sand
I take a breath and risk a glance off the bindings of my own island
And am rewarded by your panic mirroring my own.
it is a vicious cycle
I take a nap
I cannot sleep til late;
I wake, exhausted and irate.
I, dreary and weary, trudge through the day
a cat nap
Afore the sun falls away.
Muscles shriek in exquisite
Agony; as they bend
Nothing feels quite so good
As stretching out your ligaments.
Tendons, bones a-clicking
Sheaths of filament straining;
Bones covered in
Windy minds weighed down by bricks
Fall asleep in soft distress.