4/2/2024

The arbitrariness of a day. Spent in woe and in its wake we awaken dreams long thought dead or at least not meant to crawl out of shallow graves dug in vain. For what was above at all times, if we looked up and saw branches not just the roots of all of what we could have been. I’m sorry I said that. Pushing my luck, pulling your hair, in love and in lust. We begin again, scratching, broken and unbridled. Horses will run again in cold winds, whipping, our faces with all that was beneath feet, kicking dust, into hungry mouths telling them to be grateful or to shut up and shut in cabinets too tall to reach the top shelf, wobbling on tipped toes, to catch that whiff of hope, snaking, through our open windows and out into the world, again the crowd rushes and froths the waves, that sunk that ship taking us down to rest. A pillow and a hard place, could never bring the comfort that we always found, under your touch, and our skin crawls at the idea that this was only ever going to be exactly what it always was.