buoyancy

It could be her

It could be…another

It could be no one in particular

Or a thing imagined

Or a thing ghosted

            from past interplay

Isn’t that the way she thinks?

            The way she writes?

That girl kicking out…smooth

          in the floating backstroke

          gazing at the sepia-Gray sky

          creating her own calm

              her own buoyancy

              her own groove 

of being still

letting the current take her...places

a thing interrupted

in the Gray Matter

there’s a gray space

where her wild things roam

where square pegs are chased

            by round holes

where doors are halls

            and halls are doors

a space where she waits

            for the unknown

            for a thing…

                        interrupted

learning to breath

Twelve years dead

            Two years numb

            Ten years living

                        AT the speed of light

                        UNDER water

Finally,

            a slowing

            a learning

                        to breath

            a knowing

it’s okay

that girl

Take me to the fair again?

Feed me

fried foods and laughter,

arms entwined

holding hands

we'll ride the rides

more than tipsy;

And on the morrow

after little sleep and

flesh on flesh,

I will kick your ass out the door

So…call me…

take me to the fair again?

as was

she was not herself these past months

with you, she was something…more...

it was only a moment, but she knew herself

knew you;

possibilities scared her, thrilled her

you took her…as is;

Returned her, as was,

something…less…

tiny supernovas

Of all the things she’s wrote,

many were more born of hopes and dreams,

than of things

never manifest.

They were…thrills in a fleeting moment.

They were…pleas for someday.

Today, all the things she wrote

flutters

in tiny supernovas…