The sounds of hammers pounding my bones,
tools scraping and shaping – a reformation –
into something I never was – never wanted –
a post-it note.
A blur – a sea – a collage of colors and lists –
words that need me – words for sentences
to form ideas to form – an epiphany –
All I heard was fuzz – static of the reruns
of my days, of my soles scratching against
the treadmill – until I heard your voice
in the reflection of a puddle.
Gritty pavement washed in mud, the acid of
my own tired breath, and the soaked leaves
left behind a season ago – until the flat water –
became the branches from above.
Like ink stains absorbed in a mirror, whispers
of a stillness – a place of rest after drowning of
all this post-it-noted life, of all these paper
of these fears of becoming one instead of
remaining two, of never truly being happy,
of never, of never, of never. Never for you.
A place of stillness
not hidden, but uncovered. Spoken in silence.
Puddles of dirt – new beauty, untouched, yet
a quiet hope becoming of all my days.