How am I? I am an egg about to hatch, or perhaps to crack, spilled onto burning asphalt that makes me something new, etched into earth, a rose or a revolving door—something born and reborn without process, only the patience to think maybe this is okay.
I am thinking: maybe the world can be a garden, no Eden, but blossoming still with forbidden fruits we may someday touch, someday when the gates open and the flood waters recede and we once again remember how to touch.
Maybe there is intimacy in isolation.
I am a dream, a mixed media canvas adrip with unfamiliar shades and shadows, fragments of what once was and what will be, a trickled mug of colored ink, fallen like milk or some forgotten herbal remedy passed down generation to generation, mixed in the blood, the media, the canvas all overflowing with a semblance of self I no longer recognize but long, yes, to touch.
I am saffron and sage, a word palette, tonal and instrumental, a symphony of noises made in solitude—of creaks and groans, of moans and talking at cinematic renderings of life, as if strangers on a stage are somehow kindred, as if the secret unravels itself: the ensemble acts alone, each playing the part of togetherness but doing it for oneself, and I wonder, am I only lonely?
I am a cloud, or at least adrift, perhaps a boat at sea or at least at the lake where fragmented bones collect at the shore where some silent predator abandons life to decay and no one stops to heed the danger, only to gather at the delta, awaiting the wake, the crashing wave of a new thing to repaint the mundane with shades of crashing—maybe a thunder, then, or the bauble, or the bone.
I am a lone wolf—or maybe I am just alone.