You know that words escape me, kind of, lately.
Things of awe have succumbed to breakfasts and dinner plates, roach traps in the corners of the swept up floor, utensils for cooking and drawing materials.
We have collected quite a jarful of beer bottle caps and jokes about the IKEA catalog on our coffee table. Laughed amid the teacups and lips the quintessence of reality so desertless.
The burn of things just isn’t as dire as in the more unbearable times. Perhaps because the fires are calming to an end, and a rain is to be brazenly in the colors of children’s cartoons, wherefore joy is a bold season, and scars have no guard from illusion. There is nothing to say that undulled innocence cannot be born into this garden of ours. There is nothing to make such brightness false.
Spring cooks us with the freshly picked sun through a morning window.
The nights breeze through warmly, as though walks are just walks.
I have cried for nothing but pollen in an indistinct while. When the seasons reversed I cannot quite place. This all happened discreetly, without much tribulations or fanfare. Old decrees my body lived by released into a painless renewal, with much politeness authored by no one so as not to disturb the thickness of this noon, the old heartburning tragedies glazing over with our molasses life.