One Month

Disclaimer: this feature photo is one I took at some vintage boutique where they sold everything rustic. I photographed that frame in hopes one day I would paint that scene — it had imbued me with such a tranquility the first time I glanced at it, but I never began the project. Of course I didn’t. We writers love talking those talks. 

It has been one month. 

Well,

Two days to a month– 

I miss him and my leggy heart is feeble

Oscillating with its lame arms hanging like string 

The month was thought to feel like a year but my spatial perception of time has felt nothing 

Yesterday, it speaks

He was only gone yesterday — but before yesterday no sensory motor functioning gears up in the recall center

It is as though a chunk of placid procedural memory, a non thought induced or selectively attended memory, has turned blue

Depleted of its energy of function 

I think it is grey now — gradually ripening and drying to soon break off 

And dissipate into the rest of the rust 

I wonder if other things are dying too 

Perhaps enough will stay until a Miracle 

My eyes have started wincing from an intensity — I’m not sure which side it presses from 

But I’m certain it’s stomping on all of my sides

Slowly breaking me inside — perhaps waiting for an implosion with nippy fingers and a concealed smile 

But this pain is auspicious somehow,

I think it is the dark before that dawn? Or whatever the expression —

I await more darkness then, I suppose

A deeper incision until the blade becomes a part of me

No longer armory 

I think this is a happy post,

It is a little straining to breathe and my larynx feels wrapped in sandpaper 

As it mixes prose yolk with a fork until it turns runny, 

Probably illegible

But definitely transparent — predictable 

Flatulent, I suppose. 

I’m a charlatan writer who rarely exhibits the emotions she pens

But tonight my fingers seemed to have tapped a buildup of vocabulary describing a petulant patience

Perhaps I should change the title of this post to that truth,

For once.

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