Waking Song

Every morning brings with it

a choice: to lose ourselves in the minutes

or to count them. We wake to the shrill screams of fake

hummingbirds. Our thoughts are a bright crumple

of tinfoil. They sit with us, pulsing, twisting, crumbling

into themselves and a part of us wishes

we had the strength to disown them. Or even

just chastise. We say nothing, are nothing.

Sometimes, we try. We distance ourselves

into the landscape. Watch the slow dancing

of one thread into another. These gentle moments,

there is a strange sort of peace. Like everything we have

ever wanted. It is small and says nothing to us.

Only rests there, its hand pressed into the small

of our backs. Inches closer, until its breath washes

over our shoulders. Its head is resting in the crook

of our necks. We think of nothing, say nothing.

We watch the slow dancing.

To read these pieces in your inbox each week, enter your email in the comments below or let me know at

Recent Posts

See All


  • Instagram
  • Twitter
  • goodreads-512
  • images_edited_edited