Your being is closer, the sapphire fragrance of your inner child stands tall among the adult reeds. And my hands dribble through the adequate possibility, catching the stickiness of the long stems between my fingers. Making sense of today, the future.
I think about you everyday. I miss you. I think about the what have I dones and the whys and why didn’t I and how could I and what was I thinking and in all of this, making some rational sense because sense without rational is like the national anthem without pride. oh Life, I don’t want to disappoint you anymore.
Relationship with my eight year old son strained like raw spaghetti rigid in the sink and when you toss those toothpick noodles against the wall nothing sticks.
The sauce burnt on the stove even though I like the smell because it smells like I cooked something nice like how I created my son without looking at a recipe or the ingredients.
Who measures out sperm or eggs?
So here I struggle, while he stirs the pot of boiling brain temperatures of mine and racing heart.
The perfect dish of basil and mushroom spaghetti doesn’t exist but getting my hands dirty and paste splattered on my apron that I don’t even wear because my whole body is a canvas for stains, is this process that at least I can use to become better at
making the dish of Life sticky and sweet enjoyable.
War’d weathered feet, come stomping sideways up the green cliffs. We didn’t think to find the solemn giggles here. The cave puffs’ it’s ignorance, so shallow in the cove. The flighted breath under canopy , from clouds to the throne. Sweet dragon roll momentum, the blue plate something to peer for. Royalist ground pepper fits underneath the sticks; so humble to be tuned. Dialed with crumb fingers and dry mouth, the worth beaming from concrete towers.