it is quiet here for the first time in weeks. approximately 10 weeks. what kinds of measurement do i give to things that don’t even have words? i will try to pin down the elusive with hapless hands and get exactly what it feels like: muddled lines that are so sharp, so clean that i see the ends of days before they even started.

this is one, great roll down a hill, zesty and breathcatching: there is a blur of nothingness that encompasses everything. a flannel draped over my chair, blueberry compote, black labs with tails like happy bees, whiskey drinks in 12 different settings, small pieces of silence that have me averting my glance with thrill of children caught with something beautiful they just made.

what is this beautiful thing that was made? i eat it with two hands and it tastes like peach, like grapefruit, like avocado, like someone opened my stomach and found that someone planned out the most erratic and delicious dinner. force four bottles of wine down my throat, it wouldn’t feel much different.

it happened and is happening, and there is nowhere else in this little drunken piece of heaven i would rather be.

you have eaten my seashell insides, but your mouth is still on mine
so they don’t leave, they stay

you have indian rug-burned me until i am the rawer than raw, but we are
doing this 12 feet underwater
so i burn quietly and painlessly

you have pulled emotions out of me with the tide that i wanted nothing
to do with, but they are the fairest of them all,
so they can stay