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
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.