bone. breath. brink.

bone. breath. brink.

This morning I took a slow exhalation that spilled down into the bones of my feet.

I am leaning towards something I cannot yet hold in my body,

But it is right there next to my stable waist.

There are few words for this, and I am trying to map the perimeter in the dark.

Cold stone, brittle bark, sudden breeze, and green hope are the textures of discovery.

I am ready for you and for the findings you present.

Did you know that when you dropped hot tea and the cup shattered on my sticky floor,

I had already forgiven your jagged mistakes and scooped out a home for us?

By us, I mean the girl tangled in the humid roadside of Alabama,

And the one who is now on the brink.

Every day is a reunion and a resurrection of those two and some more I have collected.

We are never linear or sensible on the inside.

Like grief.

There is always a swing, a soar, and a soggy despair.

I have learned to gather them all.