I miss writing.

Your absence is a litany of quiet days, of half-

hold a storm between your palms

Never a breath for near-ness, always a sigh for late nights and maps converting millimeters into miles. Distance, cruel and faithful mistress, her borders almost a comfort to hold next to mine. Roads and rivers and mountains, sharp and soft and lovely to behold: the most passive and beautiful of barriers. Us, ever grateful for the signals that bridge the gulf, carrying kind reminders that every tomorrow is never quite alone. oh, to never have a home.

recently i have been silent. words have been hiding beneath dressers, in the dust where empty things accumulate. they stay in the peripherals of my vision, they're the colors when i squeeze my eyes shut on the nights i can only lie awake. they are the white noise in my thoughts when I try to ignore the constant of distance. it is in those spaces that i imagine the courage to speak with a friend, what we would say, how it would feel to have faith and certainty again. some things are easier than others, i remind myself- it is a comfort and a curse, and these days i fear there’s nothing worse.

it's a brick room song, a gray sky melody that would rather splash through the puddles than around them. so carelessly crafted, all joy and life and rain, the heat of too many bodies in a space, a crown of sweat at your hairline. what a time to be breathing! what a time to have iron in your veins and fog in your lungs. no time other than these moments, repeated in varying figures and functions, a rock skipping across the water and all the ripples that follow. no thought now but this song, and maybe the next, nothing more than your smile and your feet drawing light on the floor. Laugh, and let your body sing along.

we found a maze where a friend had been; laden with aimless confusion, labyrinthine in motivation. what hope was there for us, blind-sided while tracing meteorites in the air? blinking through the aftermath, I lack the confidence or skill to decode this colorful cube. why or when; or why here, why now, for what reason. no comfort in questions without answers.

I can’t be tired if I am sleep-walking, this logic is astounding and sound enough to build a house on. Sinking sand would only serve to prove them right that said I live most these days inside my head. Not that they’re wrong, you see, just that admitting defeat is more than one sleepless body can carry. What peace is there for wayward daughters, when all is said and done?

is it too much that I see flowers blooming beneath their shoulder blades, a double image garden. what rains keep us watered? what weeds choke our roots. do not spare the sunshine; what storms may come, you will find that nature has survived <> most things thus far. so too, shall we grow.

Flowers in the attic, flowers in your hair, flow’rs that bloom in winter, climbing up the stair. If ever I was poorer than days you ceased to bloom, never timing has been harsher, nor grief so much consumed. Still- bright were days with color, happy were the hours, when in a trance of sweet perfume we’d sit in petal’ed bowers. What a blur those moments seem, now time has carried on- all sharp edges in-between have smoothed now that you’ve gone. Faded are the leaves upon the wreath, once green, and withered is the bough. This too shall pass, and life once more will Spring anew; the birds will sing with everything, and I will be with you.

Between times, my limbs sang whispers full of dreaming that I, too, find home.

It’s been almost a year since we’ve spoken and I’m clutching a letter written for you in my hand; the words inside are pretending this is a common thing, like everything’s alright, but there are muscles clenching in my chest and I think my ribcage is caving in.

Oh, the crystal blue above us, painting the days so crisp and even. What a sight, with leaves all fighting in color, fainting to sidewalks far below, heaving high bright blankets of deciduous fire upon the sky, the earth, and everything between. Oh, the bite of wind in the morning, dawn greeting us with cold hands and citrine beginnings; and slow, the coolness fading with a touch of sunshine, high and stunning. Oh, for Autumn to advance! I am wading through Summer- for Fall, I would be running! Oh, I am eager for Summer to go; when Autumn has fallen, soon comes the snow!

There are infinite combination of words, infinite stars past our world, infinite possibilities for the massive in-between of existence. And there is you, there is me, there’s a road that stretches a finite distance that is nothing, in the Grand Scheme. There are mountains, there are oceans, there are tributaries and scenic valleys that breathe fog before the sun rises. There’s an envelope in my hand, but only for a relatively short time. It is an uneven trade- paper and ink for a temporary infinity of possibilities.

Deflect, and select a small peace; snap the neck of a flower-sibling (“momma had a baby,” no one says, but it sits in the cluttered, half-opened drawers of memory). This is an allowance, a temporary treaty with the present. It says, “For now,” and feels like the ocean’s embrace in late-summer. Look to the sky and accept it. Take a deep breath. “For now,” everything exhales. Seconded, motion passed, moments pass unwatched. Allow this. Now: resume collecting blooming armistice, build a crown with which to breathe, wear the victor’s wreath, and finally. Advance.