expecting words

happens all the time

natural order slightly restored. error in circadian rhythm. lips chapped and mouth dry insomnia. still no solution. shorter days and longer nights, no method for mending. muscle ached from cramped spaces, no room for growth, spurting out roots to find sturdy planting space, no sign of life.

finally cold weather. wind chill and need for closed toe attire. unfathomable how a year can pass so quickly. what now? time between us, thick heart beat emanating under polyester comforter that isn't yours. where is the concave chest, the palm rest, the beautiful flaw. and who am i, long nails but quick temper, quick to judge, to change my mind, to think i belong here.

maybe i do i must examine. maybe i shouldn't be so quick to run, to assume i'm the stranger. not given enough breathing room, exasperated, emotionally exhausted, no time for napping. wheres my acuity, i fear of become dull-edged, like the rest, blended and smudged into this big picture, colors bled into one another until you cannot point me out anymore, until i really am just a particle floating in this inextricably vast universe, a freckle on the brow of the cosmos, impossible to define, fundamentally ingrained into the carefully crafted system, a fraction of an organism, the dust at the beginning of the windstorm, someone you can't find.

i am far too preoccupied in writing my eulogy. how my heart will ultimately fail, too short of breath, gasping at the edge of my seat, fish out of water until i disintegrate. too concerned with what it will be like to be here no more that i am convinced life is passing me by so quickly. it is what i believe it to be; so i will pretend and allow it to inch on, slugging by and dragging my heels in the sand of time. its slow. a process, we are all dying, as if i know what that means. but i do still know the fear that lives between me, in the index of my own clavicle, my heart, a dwelling pain and trembling idea that this is it, this is it, it is this is this it it can't just be this. there must be more, an open door leading us into the next phase, whatever is waiting for me, a life on a cloud screaming out loud and those below can't hear, not too far from what it is now, impossible to look beyond, the climb too high to comprehend, no thought can decipher what else could possible be there for me, if any breath of existence and being-ness takes place on this brief and subtle planet, a dream in the night, incomprehensible and deeply imagined, easily convinced that it never happened, a fabrication of my own delusion, how do i set free. so do i sing at my own funeral,

do i sing out with joy for whatever this life does indeed provide. nails on silk skin, will harden with age, like me, waiting for the steam to break through this pore and release, oh the release, the extraction of this suffering, the condensation and warm touch, humid interaction, leaving it fresh as dew, new as the morning, ready and clean