december's breath is brutal,
as usual.
i miss things i can not hold,
that don't fit my hands.
i miss people that i can not bring back,
because they had their very last breath months before.
i somehow am more myself than ever.
i took a page from yesterdays book,
crumbled it,
and let myself be a body of water-
clear as a looking glass.
they all can see me now.
i've opened every window,
and gave up chasing untruths.
what i am is okay.
who i am is okay.
where i am is okay.
because i'm built by artemis herself,
green with life,
yet as pale as the moon.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
