Headed somewhere warm

Phoenix Moon
In the mornings when I get to work, I flop into my chair that bounces back and forth like those ponies on a playground. I’ve been so far away lately that I can’t even think of the word for the floppy ponies on the playground. My mind, smushed into my skull feels rooted to nothing. I put ambient noise into my ears. Music I call “In the Shadow of the Mountain” and I hope it jars the poetic voices that haven’t felt like playing for weeks. I can’t ever find a rhythm.
I took the ornaments off the tree and now it’s naked and falling. Her green fabric hanging at her ankles. I’m finally able to sleep at night. We’ve had the window open. The outside world peaking through the curtain. I suspect I belong there, but so far I’ve discovered I belong to myself and not much else. When I undress I’m a bird.
I think of you most days, see your face for a second and then push it out. If I wanted I could wind myself up, fall down the rabbit hole, get angry; dig into the wound and pull out all the reasons you cut me out, but I think I’m done hating myself for you. It’s OK for you to disappear. We live in a very wide sea against a very wide sky and never have to cross sails. I’m headed somewhere warm.
I remember when we’d talk about the moon and last night I saw her driving home and didn’t even think of you. She sang in the shadows the same way she did when I was a girl. Why did I think she was ever yours? or ours? She was mine, pulling up her dark eye lid, promising in time, more light would come.

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