There isn’t much to say about 29, so I’m listening

to candle wax and wind chimes disguised as music

and using it to make a mood, worthy of revisiting

what I found while losing it at yoga last night;

a teenage girl getting yelled at on the train

and a carousel of baggage from my pseudo high school boyfriend

who wanted me to know I was special

but not that special;

a Macy’s clearance cologne display,

a need to find a way to recreate

my brother before he vanished;

a dozen pets we buried in the garden:

lives that I discarded when they needed me most;

a hug my mom once gave me,

a hug I didn’t deserve.

I got misty over the moon at yoga;

over some three word text from my best friend,

too gentle for any font to render;

over play pretend turned real life and how it feels to finally be

present.

I cried at yoga over nothing at all;

over feeling so peaceful I could barely breathe;

over swerving turned driven,

over sadness turned softness;

and the exceptional gift of being able to fight

someone else’s fight for once.

What a joy it is to listen,

to find new ways to break

and rebuild, to pack and unpack

a running list of things I thought

I walked off.

What a joy it is to be alive

enough to die for a moment.

Written by

Writer, Reader, Animorph

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