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 email@example.com