an. wow, it's been so long. i don't think my writing is the same sort it used to be. neither am i, but that's okay.

it has been a century
and it has been a blink.

time passes better, when you're happy.

i did not think i could write poetry without
the following two ingredients:

i have love, somewhere.
not always for people,
but often for people.
and often for things.

but i am not in love. i do not wear it on my lips as a lingering bruise, or between my legs, or a second heartbeat in my stomach,
or in the palm of my hand as i reach in,
claw my heart out,
pulsing, beating, alive and bleeding,
and give it away.

i have my own heart.

i will spell this out,
to you and to myself.
i have many emotions, and not all of them are the two included in this poem.
not all of them i can form into poems.
i have love.
i have a lot of it.
i am not a love poem. i am not a love song. i am not in love.
i stand above the water and decide that swimming's not for me.

i think my sadness made me interesting
for a while.
my sadness was a black hole threatening to swallow me whole.
my sadness was drifting among the stars,
but not seeing their beauty,
but coming closer to let them consume me.
my sadness was
locked doors
leaning out windows too high above the ground
sobbing until my head pounded.

this did not make me more interesting than i would have been.
this did not make me less.

but i left the stars,
who were devouring and eating away at me
because i knew i should have loved them, but i didn't.
if i went back now, i would blow them out.
i think i'm done with darkness.