you traded for freedom with fireflies,
gave up bug lights for city ones.
you miss me like you miss fireflies;
a necessary surrender for your future.
I miss you like I miss fireflies;
a grab in the dark to bring one back home with me.
my palms always come up empty.
sewing soft stitches in unnerved unsteady lines
still new at old practices, still young as the thread winds
around a needle’s head, through the almost-fabric like
skin.
Familiar is this earthly language, these archives full to the brim.
It must be how the world got magic, these rhymes of life and limb.
Breathe.
In. Out.
A calm breath,
a solid moment stuck
in the middle of chaos.
Count to a number you call
lucky. Every number is lucky to somebody.
Comments
I love your voice in this!
Thank you!
This made me smile and feel a little nostalgic for some reason. Lovely piece. Keep writing
Thank you!
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