there is nothing
as pure as
sitting
in near-darkness
soft fabric beneath you
and a fire dying by your side
feeling fat drops of salt water
course down your face
tracing the same paths over and over again
as you watch those same tears run down another face
sitting in front of you
in a moment
that is both tainted with loss
and marked with a tear-stained bond
Flowers of songs are arranged in bouquets in my brain.
Not by genre
or artist
But by which dance from my life they transport me back to.
The daisies,
Things are different.
I don't know when they changed
or when I noticed them changing.
But in any case,
my eyes are open now
and I see that things are upside down.
At first it was just a drop
Poetry is hard in the winter.
It is inexplicable but,
for me,
definitely true.
In the spring, summer, and fall,
there are limitless possibilities,
endless inspirations.
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