remote isle
Everything I love, everything I know,
everything I reach toward and every person I care for.
All of it always just slips away.
It all flees-it all fades before I'm ready.
I don't don't know if I'd ever be ready to let go of the things I care for,
but it seems that it happens regardless.
Every event, every person, every task;
they all suddenly rid themselves of me.
And every time they come back,
I feel a piece of me getting chipped away.
After years of such torment, when will I feel the reprise?
Will I someday learn how to hold on,
or will the chasm get bigger until someday, it consumes me.
Hopefully I don't get to watch that doom happen.
Whether by an unknowing mind,
withered figure or lethal circumstance;
I hope to never feel unraveling.
I'm not deterred by the final breaths,
I don't fret the last grieving.
What I fear is the crumbling of what I am.
The cracks growing larger,
the fragments drifting away, losing the ability to put the pieces back together.
I write, I document, I archive.
But what is the value in any of it when someday,
I'll forget who held the pen.
It’s my pen. It’s my body.
It doesn’t matter if I don’t like it.
Someday I'll love it,
Someday I'll love me.
Why does the universe wish to paint a new soul in the canvas of my mind?
I feel it every day.
Erasing what it gave me,
Ripping apart what I've built,
and replacing it all with someone else.
But I don't want someone else here.
I want to be this person.
I want to live out my life as me.
Not something extraordinary,
not some replacement.
I want to find my place in the speckled indifference.
I don't have an interest in reaching for the stars.
But even when I reach for the bees and the finches,
I only ever forget what I was reaching for.
shell nest