there is always the need to fill,
running away from the moment
and into, into what?
but a space I can fill where I don’t belong
where no one belongs
because it isn’t quite real
and I need I need I need
those pills, those smokes,
those songs, those words
what are the words where are they I
can’t seem to write
the first chapter, I’m in media res
so why write what has no final chapter?
there are the unanswered questions, those
moments shining with purpose
and meaning and no conclusion
like ourselves, shining out there
body heavy, mind light
my hands are empty, why
are they still empty?
it’s been three years since
the post-traumatic diagnosis
they weren’t kidding when they said chronic
I’ve moved in two spaces, one at the pace
of glaciers melting and murdering, and one
in sound waves only I hear, the buzz of the bee
outside my window, where I watch his fat belly
hum and sway near the bud, thinking
to myself how lovely the simple things,
how I’ve learned grace.
and then the knife divides the states and
I am but another chaser of
what can possibly fill me?