distilled. (a poem)

distilled. faces flashed by.warp speedslowed byyour eyes, my eyes. I caught thema butterflywings flutteringsoftly against my hand. Wide openyou gulpeda world full ofbrackish water Through the opened lidseverything floodedan ocean in yourone entire drop of self. But you laughed.because beauty ofasymmetryis this… that by swallowingthe oceanyou can losethe drop and all youever wantedwas to bea … More distilled. (a poem)

Neruda; the flowers.

I have had a little obsession lately that has sprung up in my bones. It’s really been waiting for me for years, ever since I saw the first line in a Neruda poem. I don’t remember what that first line was. I do remember the feeling, though. “Oh, hello. It’s so¬†wonderful to see you again.” … More Neruda; the flowers.

my hands are small

It’s not metaphorical. It’s true. I have tiny hands. Size 4.5 ring finger. And they can’t dot things neatly, like that title up there that sits, balancing, without a period to stave off the anxiety of no ending. My hands can’t stop uncertainty. “My world keeps spinning around.” like the lyrics of this song that … More my hands are small