Im in the middle of no where. In a quiet house where the only noise is a running refrigerator and the swallows nesting on the back porch. My friends are miles behind me and I’m not going back. My love is in an odd transition zone of gearing up to say goodbye, but still having to live, go to work, buy milk, pay bills.
My parents are at work today – oh yeah, people are doing that right now – and I thought the few days sitting here by myself would be productive writing days, good me-time, but I’ce been running from writing using packing as an excuse for not having any time. I think truly I’m not ready to walk back into dark closet door. I’m afraid if I open it everything will come cascading out.
I haven’t felt any poems lately. I jump on lines or symbols, but past the first or second thought they fizzle out. I’m out of shape. But now today, maybe it’s good I’m forced to sit with myself where silence rings high pitched and my friends scrap-booked and I am left to wander holding their pictures in my back pocket.
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