I am not a woman of letters. I am the desire to forget, and the longing for remembrance. There is no in-between.
I will not apologize for empty pages, spaced between temperate winds and fickle skies. It means I am too busy living.
When words fail me, I know I am content. There are thousands of different languages for sorrows, but none for discovering what is meant to be found. Sometimes as small as a lucky penny on the pavement, or a butterfly kiss on warm summer petals. Other times, it is a pair of sturdy arms after a long winter.
Yesterday with a hint of today,
Ancient with a hint of modern and Vivian Maier with a hint of sl(str)eep(t).
I am I am I am comprised of nothing.
Dead heart with a flame floating on a river of hope measured by boulders of desert waiting for rain,
a multitude of dots and crosses,
a sense of urgency for love,
hair loose a blurry detail,
warmth in the cusp of the crease of grin