“The part the needs healing is our personal life. Personal life has nothing to do with work. Besides, what better way of healing than to find our center of self-sovereignty?”
Some poems flow quiet naturally while being written, with a certain ease that is pleasurable and satisfying. This was not one of those poems. This one came in spurts and pieces, which is fine, but it’s not one that I can say I am incredibly happy with its current state. Not one of my favorites. Nevertheless, sometimes, with the work, we have to just shut up and turn it in, play it, publish it, open the curtain, etc.
This piece came from a place of painful separation from someone I care about very much.
I imagine you in smears of blue,
Frothing white and gray on nights
When you will not sleep, cresting and
Breaking over worn jade, churning deep
Purple, tossing yourself up, wishing these
Hands of mine could reach across the
Moon-stained sound, over swirling, black
Expanses to stroke your hair.