writing

On

From my window I see a tree, lining the street. Standing tall in its rank. I see a glimpse of blue, the sun fading, a wistful sky not quite ready for goodbye.

I hear the cars, going somewhere. The arguments that won’t wait. I hear you reading in your room, not ready for goodnight.

Not ready. I think. Think on my day. The days before. The days yet to come. Unsure of where I stand. I look to the window, watch the tree.

Go on. We all just go on.

 

 

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Unravel

Close to midnight my mind is busy, too busy. Tumbling and turning. Writhing around. A nest of thoughts tangled, tugging.

Time to pause.

I know I should pause.

But the tug is there. The mess is waiting. Pulling at my mind.

I can’t sleep. I still can’t sleep.

I go to the garden, sit on the swing. A chill catches me. I swing into the night. Reach for constellations, patterns I know well.

I swing, legs not touching the floor. Reaching for the stars. Searching for something. Not ready to land.

If I land. I fall. Trip up on my own thoughts. They wrap me up, pull me down. Too much. Tonight. I swing. In, out, up, down. I push myself harder, reach higher. Tears roll down my face. My fractured heart aches.

The stars fade. The sun breaks. Another tired day.

Bird Song

4.30 I wake, the birds are singing outside our window. I lay alone. Listen. Their clear whistle punches through the early morning. The day not bright, not quite ready for their chorous. Yet they sing. Shout aloud. I scream. Tears run down my face. They are alive, so alive. You’re not there. Still not there. Can you hear them? Hear them sing.