Dear Irene,
I never really know what I’m feeling, just that this feeling will change. On a whim, it might be in a cool august shower on those days when mountain down is filtered by haze. I guess you could compare it to a sunset; predictable but never the same, and in truth just a fusion born fire that glows on an eons delay.
On those days, when waking up was herculean and shaking out my shoes brought malaise; and each step from the hearth was a battle and the war lasted till the 97th pace. I looked. And I looked to you for guidance, on how not to fall flat on my face. But I broke every bone in my body stumbling, through my internal maze.
On those weeks, when everything is filtered through petals and awe strikes like lightning
over
and over in the same place. When my road bike becomes a blue angel and small talk becomes a character driven off broadway play. When I drink too grand with a stranger and teach myself how to belay. If my eyes are fine points of static and words flow like songs on the island of Lomas, know that I up fell a missile and sooner than later it will impale me.
Dear Irene, I never really know where I’m going, just that I’m going your way. And I fear that I’m weight not an anchor, when you sprint up the luminous trail.
On those years, when “it’s nothing” builds up cranial pressure, and floating becomes your refrain. Take my hand, I’ll guide you back to, safer waters, a place where the warmth never fades.
On those years, when “it’s nothing” builds up cranial pressure, and floating becomes your refrain. Take my hand, I’ll guide you back to, safer waters, a place where the warmth never fades.
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