Write on Through the Block

I've been wrapping back up.
Tucking the covers in around myself; preparing for winter.

Your absence.

The fucking holidays.

There's something in your face that belongs to me. The shape and movement of your hands; the way they own me. It's a small stone rubbed smooth in a pocket of my heart.

Meanwhile there's so much to do.
And so I do.


Just like one of the tiny flying star parts of dandelion fluff. Set aloft on someone else's wish.

Standing out on the front porch in the dark the world seems to simply drop off in front of me. I'm quite sure the universe is cart wheeling off into space and there's no stopping any of it. The clocks or the growing or the changes or the ache.

Fear squeezes anything good left in a persons heart right on out. Drips down to their feet, cementing them wherever they might be.

It doesn't stop us from spinning, tossing, turning .. Floating about on someone else's hot air.

I might just need another layer, a thicker quilt. I might just be cold again.