Flow

Hot late summer sun glaring on my skin. I sit in my soft green chair and do the same things. Over and over again. I don’t know that I’m awake. I don’t know that I’m fully here.

Lost in rituals from pasts made up, lost in green eyes that don’t exist, lost in “Do you trust me?” Lost in “Will you? Do you want to?”

I should make a pot of tea, simmer down these spirits, calm this rattling claptrap mind. But in these early, first waking hours — I don’t want to.

Want to listen to vapour trails of dreams like tentacles or hairs holding on to me. Want to drop into ice cold realities, stark white against black backgrounds. I want to sink teeth into Carbon. I want to drown in Lithium.

Tashi wa kanashi luoco — but I don’t feel it just yet. Not right now. Not lying curled up in this warm bed. In the afternoon, late into the long dreary day of doing things the same way, if you want to remind me — well, that will be okay. Twist a bit of lemon peel, orange rind, and shake a little salt on my mind. Remind me that whatever’s easy comes out silly, prosey, clunky and unhoned.

Remind me: come next summer, you’ll be bogged down in editing.
Yes, and that’ fine too.

But for now, it’s working and I’m rolling with the waves.
I’ll get the sand out of my teeth, hair, face when the time comes.
And it will.

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