Writing

Floating in the sky

Like white fluid still in time

But moves in slow grace

Swirled with a brush by an oil painter

Yet sculpted with regality of wood

A whisper full of substance

An illusion of support

I am out at night because I can’t stand myself. 

People are milling on the street. Nobody looks at me. They all look at each other as they pass, and the lights decorate their faces to be tall and luminous. 
 

William doesn’t talk to us anymore.

He left us in the closet when he moved out of the house.

Time tears at our gentle fabric skin.
 

William won’t let us go in his head.

It is midnight and I am getting a haircut on the lawn.

I am tired, but I shiver with excitement.

Gentle hands tug and snip at my curls,

And as they fall they take root in the grass.

When I was little I had a big pack of friends. The big kids did once too, and they romped along the streets of our town.

I made tea this morning.

I put the leaves in, watching the steam dance with childlike wonder.

I returned to my laptop, staring at a half finished chapter, the bags under my eyes more apparent than ever.