“If you could be anywhere in the world

At this exact moment,

Where would you choose to be?”

I choose the easternmost point

Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.

Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,

Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands

And the promise of a new day

Being made right before my very eyes.

What could be more reassuring?

What could be more solidifying?

To know that no matter

What happened in the days or weeks

Or months or years or decades

Before,

Today, right now, at this exact moment,

It is all behind you,

It is all in your past.

And that sunrise you’re watching

Over cresting crashing white topped waves

In the cool breeze of morning

With the scent of dirt and earth and trees

Carried on the wind that also brings

The call of the morning dove and thrush

And Phoebe-bird,

Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.

The promise that you’re gonna be okay

Because today, today is a new day.

solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.

"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."

"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."

"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."

by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"

Did you know
that I drink molten lava?
I like the way it burns.

I am not afraid of you.
I've let the Earth's poison
melt and destroy my insides-
re-solidifying around my heart.
You cannot hurt me.

****.
My insides are melting again.
And I cannot speak;
I can only observe-
eyes wide with horror.

I chugged you down
because you were the
only glass of water in this desert.
But your water
turned out to be acid.

And I am falling
down
        down
                down
into abysmal nothingness.

My eyes are wide with horror
because I'm watching my nightmare
take place in broad daylight.

(I'm falling for you.)

As the bliss of midnight approaches them
The clouds shed the light of a cold moon

Leading their lives together, the end is gone
And the illusion they feel,
Cannot be repeated

Drying is the fluid of love,
Solidifying and holding them still in time,
Longing for the night to persist.

They know the morning approaches,
The expectation of the sunrise means an end.
The end of night is the end of all time,
And as unfathomable as eternal endings are, it still ensues

Moon setting,
Sun rising,
The contradicting feelings swim,
Uncertain of the future their love has ended.

The bliss of her death, as the blood runs down his fingers, consumes him, and the sharp pain absorbs him.

Until the night and cold moon flash again
The two will lay with security as true as the sky is broad.

Writer's blocks build walls of divide.
On the one side jump experience and feeling and emotion and thought, but on the other sit the words that rest in my mind and refuse to wake up from their pesky slumbers of stubborn laziness. All it takes is one word to smuggle itself passed a crack in the wall and there's a melody of language. The ideas can shoot itself only so high without its counterpart on the other side helping it reach the top. Oh writer's blocks, please stop mounting yourselves on top of one and other. With every solidifying brick, another word slips away and slowly writes itself into a permanent shut-eye. I know you mean no harm and simply want to exist in the struggle for perfected poetry, but my life currently lacks its  therapy. I appreciate your necessary hindrances, but if you could help me harmonize my mind and soul, I'd value your necessity much more.

solitary soul in the sea
slovenly storks slide
      (against a grey sky)
seeking satisfactory sensations
             solidifying
    soul searching solutions

You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.

“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.

DR PEPR

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-­woo-woo!”

cut out my tongue it will never be able to capture your beauty in words.
My hands useless for your essence transcends the boundaries of script.
My entire being, may it dissolve in the hope of solidifying into you
my love, my venus, my divine feminine goddess, of everything natural and new

A little grin peeks out almost unnoticeable; an introduction, as the letters wax and take shape. Slippery from the thoughts, dripping and solidifying on paper. The wonderland of words has been entered.

2. A silver half of a plate, a yellow half of the nocturnal sun, an inked half of the paper. Imbalanced but semi-complete, words written halfway were still wholely thought of.

3. Midnight's peak is the best time to write. The full moon rises as the keyword is written. Clear as a mirror to reflect the emotion desired.

4. The ink is now running out, with the poem waning. It's coming to a close, growing into farewell's small smile. The process may be ending but the life of the product has just begun.

5. With the final curtain call of clouded skies and emptied minds, the poem is finished. The new moon take its place in the lives of people, invisible to the eye but fully felt with their hearts.

The sun has come.
Somewhere far on the eastern border
of my existence she has begun her
wild haired dance across the sky signaling the dawn of
a new day.
Slowly, I rise.
Feeling every ache and pain and fiber of my humanity,
I great a gray wash environment.
This stillness, haunting, like the watercolor left unfinished in the
closet.
Joints creak like gears.
Rusted from neglect, they scream their displeasure breaking
the silence and solidifying my existence.
My neck strains against
this shackle of a belly pulling from my shoulders
forcing me to notice my feet, almost for the first time in years.
Time has not been kind to them.
Twisted and gnarled like the roots of the tree my
father planted in my youth.
Dark skin, dried and scarred from years of taking them
in and out of socks, sit dumb and silent as mules waiting
for my command.
Toes, blistered from a lifetime of being stubbed on desk
corners and floor boards, reach blindly for the
fine fibers of the blue carpet at the edge of the
bed.
Knees shaking, like the screen door on my grandmother's porch,
from the weight of my distended middle force me to
grab for the nightstand.
Driftwood hands stumble across the well worn surface
remembering every nail and knot and grain.
More than most will ever forget.

This steam feels good against my skin.
I leave my hands to their chore,
letting them travel the same course without thought.
lather
scalp
face
that funny spot behind my ears mama would rub to soothe
my pain
neck
arms, first left then right,
stomach
top of my aging genitals to the deepest portion of
my inner thighs
down my legs
top of my back letting the soap run down my spine
and between my buttocks.

From the corner of my right eye
a face catches my attention.
Not the face of a stranger, no I remember this face.
Like old friends meeting again
for the first time, smiles stretch gently across
our faces.
We reach for each other, tracing
the laugh lines etched deep in our foreheads remembering
the origin of each.
This is not a stranger's face.
No, this is the face that woke me at the dawn of
each new day and stood watch in my sleep.
These
eyes are not my own.
In another lifetime they
smiled at my very existence.
Set in stone, they shone like stars on my first
day of school.
I remember everyone saying I was the spitting image of my father.
Youthful pride denied their words, but here he stands.
Smiling back at me.
Hello father.
My it's been such a long time since we met.
How have you been?

The Quantum anthem sets off the spark of enchantment as I file through things only thought
All borrowed and blurred belligerence baffling beauty, things only sought.
Spiraling sickens the surging of those who surrender their sudden sorrow for meaning to flutter.
Herds of things unheard splurge in cinematic combs fastened by fertility
Charred remembrances burn deep as feelings bleed
Bursting boundless solidifying into expression
Without it battles of head and heart oppression
Redirecting rising ripples focused forward
Onward and steady swaying as my doubt is fading
Curtains close the colossal conundrum crystalizing in my veins
Setting off distant delirium  
Honeycomb harbor home
We are not alone
We are not alone

He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.

Heavy hearted hands

lifting my body up

Almost filled up

And soon ill be snatched up

Self made

Enraged

In a cage of shame

Chained

To my Godless contemplation of the oneness

Smothering the somethings, I worked so hard for

But i adore the test

Ignore the rest

Blessings from the depth

Of my love for all of you

I dare to dream of things my eyes are too small to see

In futility to the world

I breath deeply

Unfurled

Upon the twisted shapes

Refracting light

Shifting states

Heightening my holographic hemispheres

Likening the charge of the heliosphere

To the happiness barging into the universe

In verse-less surges of sanctity

Solidifying the sanity

With purges of popularity

From the light-less Polarity

Spinning the tops

Of sincerity

Declaring its love for me

I used to like to run
run like the wind,
just to see how fast I could go
and now I run
but to escape , to get away
you see,
I have trouble looking my demons in the eye
I am cowardice, weak, afriad
afraid that the fire burning in their eyes
will consume me, ruin me, burn me
leaving charred ashes of this person I hate
who's too afraid tell you the truth
too afraid to take her rose coloured glasses off and see the world for what it really is
too afraid to admit to herself that the reason she doesn't stand up
and shrug your shackles off her shoulders
why she doesn't tell you everything she should
why she stands at the mirror, poking and prodding
wishing her waist was thinner, her ******* were bigger
her legs were longer, her feet were smaller
her eyes less empty
she is afraid, afraid of one small little word
no
No I won't listen, No I don't care, No I won't love you
No, you can't have your way, you can't stay
and so she locks up her words, in the safe
in the pit of her stomach, in the far reaching backwoods of her mind
like drying cement it weighs her down
solidifying her veins, till her heart can't beat
stiffening limbs stopping her feet
from moving forward down the street
she is stone, a hollow, statuette of herself
till her screams shatter her way out, and break free
and then she runs

She sits with her legs folded to the right,
head covered in red satin bordered with gold brocade.
Strands of dark brown hair sneak out from under the satin.
Gold earrings dangle from her small honey colored ears.
She has the plainest lips I’ve ever seen.
They’re just a centimeter apart with no hint of a smile.
Her dark brown eyes are laden with thick black mascara.

I keep trying to look away.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she sits there,
clueless like a young bride.
I think about how many have lusted for her scent before me.

The silk curtain in front of her window closes,
solidifying the boundaries of our two worlds.
Her voluptuous shadow visible behind the curtain pulls me away from my world
and ***** me into hers’.

It’s gone now, and I sit back in my chair and look around.
I hear people discussing the stock market plunge but all I can think about is the dark figure behind the silk curtain.
She will never know I had been so close,

and the woman with the plainest lips will forever remain my secret.

Parable Gerákipolis: “Some Athenian Falcons streaked the harps of King David that had to be triangulated with Patmos from some evening buntings, to assign them to a Gerákis that flew ready from Athens to Patmos. Before leaving the temple of his maiden nurse; she muttered apothegms of some Tetraktys to her, combining the sums and values ​​of the first four goods of her entrusted bird, relating to the identical values ​​of her Adonis, who always muttered at her and clumsily delayed words that she wanted to mention to her before going to the campaign. war saying: "Three campaigns, plus two relays and a short stay outside the courts, I will dare desecrate the six times that I swore to tell Athena that no more than once I would regret receiving her entourages, but only two will be fruitful in the third day I went repeatedly to look for him, without profit, only forming doubts in the return and return in the clutches of my Gerákis that smelled of harps with essences and fables of fortune, that incomings and goings formed plasmas of the Tetraktys, doing the Venusian geometry in the magnitude of the face of my Gerákipolis, becoming a landowner between two straight lines, and then with more points to offer it between the solid forms of its Falangist Hetairoi, right there, there solidifying, defenseless and willful in his inventive poetry "

The pretensions exuded in femininity flew, still with her bephos ruby ​​lips cracked from so much uttering fearful lines, which made her diligent sirens and cyclamen emerge, in contiguous instinctive premonitions of falconry and of her supported Gerákis. The hawk arrived at the buttress shutter with his ungainly temper, leaving his missive on his marble stool, he withdrew and when he was just about to go to his almería to stalk, he observed that another glowing Gerákis was coming in the opposite direction, with his red claws, and on his neck, he wore a missive for the beloved maiden. Then he observes that the hawk rises against the dive, emitting happy yells to the sky that was filled with celestial bouquets of cyclamen swooping down to leave the court, in whose defiance it finely said "it will not be easy to leave you, I am Hetairoi and I bring the stigma of Xyston and his left arm, billing the other tusk of the viper, with the signs of two apothegmatic wastelands that say that nothing will ever separate us ”. The other Gerákis watched everything from afar, seeing that his, another alien to him, fell from great elevation and plummeting, with great prosperity spreading in his Falconiade gene catalog, missioning as an angel so that his yelling would never end.

(Procorus, understood from afar that in his hands they still followed the marks of the Gerákis, which gave him more stories of snakes' fangs, from which two stories emanated from the same one, but from a secondary protagonist for potions of whoever wants to end up adorning themselves in his floating love, and in the hemlock of a vile antagonist, with his dried fruit Aquenio of neology and love that opens even if it is inflated in the bladder of all the loves that lose the filtered blood of the bleeding gods)

the floor is icier than the last time i crumbled down here. i'm enclosed within the walls of eerie silence, blackness all around me, enveloping my terror, releasing my pain. tears seem to find their own way down to the floor, first dancing with delight, then solidifying and morphing into dark crystals. what is more comforting than the fetal position? the escape that has been written repeatedly into my screenplay of a life.

I want to punch you 'till you bleed
twist you bones 'till they snap
vacuum the remainders of your heart
then squeeze your veins 'till you no longer


But when the starting gun is fired
I am stopped by gravity
pulling me back
humanising this creature dressed as you
solidifying the sea of hatred a mile tall


The more I fight
the more I cry
each drop that splashes on the ground
is a piece of my heart
sweating
           sweating
                       for all the creatures in this world.

My love doesn't obey time.
My madness doesn't know reality,
And my consciousness...

My consciousness sits somewhere
    In the middle of the ocean,
       On a raft,
          Smoking a bowl.

              And every time I ask it to come back it just says,
               "Nah, man. It's much better out here."


My heart doesn't listen.
My brain can't lead,
And my life...

My life ends every twelve months.
With each new year, I start over and live through an entire lifetime.
        Condensed,
          Compressed,
            But still just as heavy.


My reflection doesn't know it's me.
My thoughts don't know when to stop,
And my soul...


My soul is ever growing, helping me learn from my mistakes.
With it I'm able to reach out and truly change things.
          Holding,
            Grasping, and
                Solidifying immortality.

To understand the stories we tell,
we must experience them.
Smell the burning timber
of a ruined house.
Hear the cries of a newly made widow,
so others may understand her sorrow.
Feel the warmth of the twisting flames,
swallowing every scrapbook and
pillowcase, tile shingle and teapot.
Observe as a lifetime’s collection
of material objects melt before
the eyes of their owners.
Watch as the light works for you,
bending and burning,
solidifying in still frames
the very details it destroys.
Feel the pain of their loss,
and allow the images you create
to properly illustrate that agony.
Some may see snapshots
of a burning house,
but others will understand
that these are not pictures,
but moments stolen from time.
Do this, and you will find,
that instead of documenting death,
your images preserve life.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs
and goosebumps raining from my arms
while warmth spreads through my body,
shedding the chill
as if by magic.

Silk and buttons and pretend lace,
cheap boots,
expensive lipstick,
a night out
with confidence by my side.
There's a laugh here too;
it keeps echoing across the bare valleys of my collarbones
and finding its way to my ears.
I resist the urge to turn and share.
Instead,
I smile, taking half-part,
saving a few for a rainier,
colder day.

A shoulder bump,
warm skin brushing against thin cloth,
pulling away from the wrong
and inventing the right;
stepping to the left
and creating space,
solidifying the distance.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs,
holding onto my skirt
and letting that chill back in,
discarding the easy warmth.
I walk forward,
giving it up,
giving it away,
shedding the feeling,
shedding the idea of it
as if by magic.

Fishnets,
holes,
spaces,
filled

by warm magic.