there is nothing I can say, safely.
there are changes and motions and stillness
that have left me naked and stripped to my bare organs;
the heart being the evident one.
what can I do now with this?
dress myself up?
keep all hope down?
there is no home yet. no place, no heartbeat, no whisper.
I have buried this many times,
it resurfaces as if it was a gore tale.
It comes out, almost shinning its light
to face my own little darkness.
I hate that I love.
yet I live because of it.
I re-member, and arrange and continue,
trying to weigh my feet down I find myself,
after all these years.
No more an astronaut I wish to be;
but I still wonder, I still look at the sky.
You know? I still write, how ironic.
I still am who I was,
but less. much less.
and with it I have not become more.
I use the word I still.
(is it even considered a word?)
I battle my thoughts with your logic.
I silence my own naive narrative,
who knows why I am even allowing it.
I question my intention every step of every way,
even though I have no way.
Lost as it were, moving slowly,
in rhythm with the desire of not wanting more distance.
I died. I did die.
Just like love I still try to resurface.
Every so often I smile. bot not for long.
not an adult smile.
because there is no real reason to.
not with a broken heart.
a heart that should be empty by now.
but it is full,
And I carry that weigh, that life that never happened.
That night, that day, that phrase, that word, that whisper,
I re-live it to live.
I have yet to get sick of it.
at least as much as it got sick of me.