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chaos soup
my thoughts don’t seem to press well together, now a dirty tangle of threads instead of the once-bright tapestry. I can’t think what picture must be woven, the one so clear to me a week ago today is dim as dreams, thick fog, impenetrable. (I was somewhere else) or Soon, I will find myself waking up, shaking sweating and relieved. I will pour myself into your arms. “I had the worst dream....” Reality will be blinding us, sunrise through picture windows. This will not happen. The only present-tense that weakens my eyesight is darkness. I feel my way through four hundred days, scrape my shin on five hundred and seventy six thousand minutes, the miles an impossible maze between us. The time, moreso. This is not anguish. This is dull, confused, gray-skies ache. Your “I love you” feels more like a bruise than a promise. I am becoming far too skilled at goodbye poetry.
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