Writing

a gust of cold wind 

leaves burnished by the new fall

time to bake cookies  

I'm sorry for screaming so loud,

Except really I am not,

Because how am I supposed to stay quiet, 

When this fire still burns hot.

I wander through the woods. The day is cool and dry, with a wind blowing that smells of wood and fallen leaves. The bracken has begun to brown, though the Joe pye weed and goldenrod still stand strong.

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. 

In a chaotic world 

of eight billion people, 

each hidden away 

in their own 

separate lives, 

be remembered for 

being the person 

who brings others joy, 

I want you to kiss me until my lips bruise and pucker and purple and all I can taste is the inside of your mouth.