kafka visited me, told me that
poetry is prayer.
i told him how my skin crawls. i clutched his arm.
he sang me to sleep.
i write about people who never loved me.
i write about loss.
i miss my poems, do you?
i’ll never go back, but a visit would be nice.
my history stands next to me. leans
a hip on the kitchen counter
and watches me chop onions i guess.
judgemental and otherworldly.
i make a home inside myself,
in the cold cruel comfort of my heart.
i spend hours staring at the sky.
hours staring at mySelf in the Universe.
hours running my hands through grass as if it
could be my lover’s hair.
if Time is a gift and i must spend it, i would
spend eternity here. eternity now.
eternity shivering in the garden my mother made me.
i’m 18 but i climbed a tree for the first time today,
and i was alone
but the clouds and the pears laughed with me
and held me hand
and kept my tights from ripping when i almost fell.
i can’t say i love you enough
[i love you today and every other goddamn day]
but i feel like the universe knows my love
and i’m shaking and crying asking Her to realise
how reverently i adore Her
and She’s shushing me, telling me
She knows, encouraging me to climb a branch higher.
the sky shifts to dusk
and my fingertips ache with the cold
but i’m still just talking to the grass.
i don’t notice the cold i don’t notice
anything
except the feeling of the sky in my hands.
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