and it feels wrong, to write

love, to keep my lips shut

like i'm dead, to breathe

dust, to do something

you don't know about,

to feel lost in the finding

but i just feel so stranded. and

if you'd asked me before i could have

given you a number and told you that in

my mind that number was

nothing at

all, but here we are - here we are,

sitting in the same room, sitting quiet;

here i am, writing poetry for the first time

in two months because i'm scared enough and
lonely enough for me to feel it. here i am,
without a quote

at the ending, with too many

transitions, with something about to

burst from my chest but

if i let

my voice go i will
ramble myself into

a panic

---

more later; i'm reconstructing all my music - recreating my whole history - and it's taking days.
today turned out to be good. this was written before that happened.

thank you. ♥