“All things in their place and time
even the haunting notion of forgiveness
because, I think, we both lost ourselves in the intensity of sensuality.”
I sit, saying to myself, cupping my fist in my fist, clasping my fingers around my pale knuckles and clenching.Some wind runs itself through my spine. A wicked bird streaks itself across the silent spring sky. Blue.In the distance, the moment is dismembered by the bladed cackle of an ambulance wailing against my blank canvas. I lift my legs from the earth and curl my arms around my knees to shield them from seeing. I watch and the sky murmurs.Blue. I was told in the adrenaline of vibrant and rough-hewn conversation that I am vulnerable.Those words both the razor to my skin and the stitches that will heal me once again. The mundaneness of hunger, its casual indifference towards sorrow, reminds me that I am still alive. Alive but I am fear. A mother walks by pushing a stroller, glancing over at me nervously. Does she see my feathers fall from my perch? I unravel myself, stepping onto the paved park path. “Move forward.” I say to myself. I am resolved. I have forgiven you though I can not yet forgive myself. I walk home next to that algae covered blue.
All things in their time and place.
All things are given their due.
“ Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”