This morning I cried. The holes of a heart that don’t feel like holes at all, but pressure building with no holes to breathe out of. The condensation building by the edge of glass. That’s what happens – breath turns to water.
I felt abandoned by someone who would probably never abandoned me. But that’s what lonely is, isn’t it? Feeling the light by the bedside is only the ghost of a light. This morning it felt hard to be a writer. Or maybe it just felt hard to be me and writing is just the fluid release. My entire leg fell asleep and I couldn’t even feel it happening. And what makes it happen – you go to sleep one way and wake up another? You go to sleep feeling strong and fierce and your dreams make you tired. 8 hours in another world wholly your own. That other life in your already doubled life that’s now doubled and doubled. But you cry for a long time. See yourself in your room as a little girl crying for a long time – this is nothing new. The hole you renamed a well not too long ago. Names to the unknowns of us to make them known. Isn’t that what poetry is?
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