Well.
Won’t we miss this
The island of consequence and circumstance
Strange strangers that hold like family
Tethered to one another by scenario
I’ll miss being tangled underneath your veins
You never needed to tidy for I knew a mess so well
We knew one another forever backward
That made the forward forever effortless
Sun shines in and casts away shadows
I knew we’d both cry and ache for breaking things
Bury me in this scarf of unreality and laugh because it is okay
Pick apart my cloudy words and tell me what I say
Scare each other, reach and tear, hide and spare
Wonder if there’s something there
Know it cannot matter
Glad for you I truly am. And glad for me I’ll learn
But won’t we miss our island, friend?
Tethered by our sadness?
Writing lettered foreign tongue
Never knowing trespass?
Pity how it always ends, even when it doesn’t
Learning silence all again
Though -true- I said I couldn’t
Lifeboats loudly clang to come
But I can only climb
Must we truly now be found?
Fetch us while we’re burning?
Learned and older, wiser, cold
I reckon I was growing
Current carries you away and I am only waving
Couldn’t say a word or cry but happy I’ll be claiming
I hope they take good care of you
I wish that you’ll be cosy
While all the world is deep asleep
And we are surely waking….
I’ll call out for my echo far
And listen like a feather
I think that you will somehow know…….
….and see that we’re still tethered

(●̮̮̃•̃) (●̮̮̃•̃)
/█\. /█\

We were all creating.
Reading our quiet words, and trying to recall the ones we forgot to remember…..
You got up on the old wooden stage and there was one grey and one yellow sheet of linen behind you and you sat on an old stool that looked like it had been painted so many layers of colours and the dings and chips in the paint revealed eras and histories like rings of a tree.

I sucked in my breath and released the reel, and lit the bulb as you inhaled the same.
You read your words that everyone and no one should hear.
Criminal, either way.
I want the world to drink them to the very last drop and I want to beg you to bury them in the tin and under the brittle floorboards.
They are honest and like a leaping shadow that found your mouth before your hand.

Bitter beauty.

I’ve caught myself up in these thoughts and then I blink to reality (yet still within a dream) and you are reading, while my silent film of bleeding colours like skin and cheek and lash and brow and wisps of hair and the side of hands and candlelight penetrating woven grapevines….these images are like your words…we almost hold them…you, too…but we cannot…..the impossible images…the flickering film stains your face, your skin, your shirt and your hand on your knee.

I hope for only one and maybe two to understand all that is happening in this moment, in this hallowed wooden room.

I am here.

“Magpie Sighs”

“How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view:-
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every lov’d spot which my infancy knew.”

~Woodworth~

from The Old Oaken Bucket