andromeda

There's enough moons for us to finish this great work I'm sure

I was pacing back and forth through the glow of my room and it seemed to take a while to wade through these thoughts too. I've never minded the distance, I've never minded how long the walk is or how many times I've crossed it. I do it anyway, regardless—rebelliously and no hinderance to the way I bare my face.

These melodies are worn to the bone, and even though I've been modest and thoughtful there's an unspoken room where I can speak like it's home. I tend to talk with myself often, I enjoy the liminal spaces, the sounds in alleys, wet pavements and vaulted murals with faces. I roam to give my heart something to see because the danger isn't a problem, it's the nuance of complexity and balancing of memories.

I guess some things are easier to say this way; poets and artists all find themselves here and their stories reflect moments of their day in spite of those fears. Their weakness is their strength, they see the art in the mundane and trust the aching pull of the unwritten fates. There's always risks to take, moments to taste, calculations to make, all of it to capture the expressions of the Ether. Surely! the meaning needs poetry, surely my heart speaks rhythmically, whatever keeps the moment faithfully.

—Until one lonely day
      gravity no longer obeys,
and the clouds get closer
the stars swirl tighter
and things you expected to fade
begin to surface and become lighter by day.

I have said many times
   I don't know what to make of it
but it seems even if true
there is so much that tells me
that I'm no fool.

No poem or song can hide enough I've realized;
I've pulled away to see these things
this body of work has always
stayed consistently,

and for me there's only a smoldering hope
  maybe it's of things I once wrote
    where things existed in a different world
       and where battles used to be lost now are won 
    without the heavy cost.

I wake up. My rings are still on, my face on the desk, my eyes catching light from the glows of pink amethyst. The dream was deep, I was pacing, I was thinking of galaxies and behind me I had left a trail of leaves. They whispered and breathed like notes and loose sheets, each like feathers free with secrets they each keep written small and neat. How long was I gone? How long can I stay? I'm finding it odd without the anxiety and pain.