Writing

I could worry about the little things 
The little things that don't matter
The material things 
The things nobody but myself sees

When I am no longer myself  
And you are no longer yourself  
Will we meet again?  

The snow fell in a layer thin enough for my footprints to reveal the concrete beneath each step. It lifted in waves when the wind skimmed the ground, like tall grass in an open field.

there is a sweaty girl in the equator

who sits in the fields of her farm, brewing eyes watching the cassava grow

she sits in the refreshing heat, a heat that caresses her cheeks and plagues her mind

Dissociation smears his presence onto the walls of my room.

Now difficult to see where the door begins,

where to escape.

Oh Earth, in your embrace we thrive,
Your soil, your sky, keep us alive.
You gift us trees and rivers wide,
With oceans deep and mountains high.