You reached out to touch my face that day.

Your fingers seemed already cold upon my moist cheeks.

I felt my tears must have had a lifetime of pain in each drop.

With a wry smile, your thumb made a gentle arc across my cheek to wipe away the pain.

And then,

you placed your thumb in your mouth, closed your eyes,

and heaved a great sigh.

Your breath expelled slow and steady, and I watched as the salt of my tears unlocked the grief you had been trying to hide.

Our pain bloomed in each line and crease upon your face.

You corralled me in to your chest and held me tight there.

And we both wept.

Because weeping,

is easier than saying goodbye.

There's something cleansing to the act of basic maintenance that you've been meaning to do because you have no time and you'll get to it soon and the next thing you know your shoes have holes and your hair is a nest and you're so used to being a colossal mess that you don't even bat an eye when you get nervous looks from the passerby because you've gotten a little too close to the gutter even though I'm positive that was the top headline of fashion a few years ago but you take a day when you don't work and you tell your friends that you're busy and that you have things to do and you attempt to tame whatever anxiety you develop with a tiny little stool made of whatever courage you can muster and put yourself into the hands of a complete stranger who cuts things for a living and that definitely doesn't bother you at all.

No offense to wood workers.

It all turns out in a fashion not that you're feeling fashionable because the hair cutting place (the barber, the salon?) has murals of finely coifed people that have been photo-shopped into a completely different species of being but they make you feel like an alien with your split ends and sub ten dollar hair supplies and it's windy outside so the elegant presentation that you see when you're all done and you think to yourself that it isn't all that bad you might even try something new with your look is dashed by a playful wind and you remember why you do what you do to your do because time is the one thing no one has which is why you declared today a maintenance day if you'll recall but have no fear because you can still cross it off on your list of things to do between pick up milk and think about replacing your holey socks with something that won't make you cringe if you ever have to take off your shoes for whatever reason in the company of other people and just remember kids if you burn your holey socks that does not make it a holy flame so please don't try this at home.

Do not tell the firefighters I encourage burning down your house.

On your way back home you feel empowered with your wind tousled hair and a shortened list that is growing by the second but you only look at it out of the corner of your eye because today is about progress against entropy even if it wins in the end eventually so you pull up your pants and you straighten your shirt and you wish your big toe wasn't sticking out of your sock but you'll manage as you have for entirely too long and you go to collect your bread and ooo that's on sale and that's on sale and you remember reading something about supermarket psychology which sounds super villainous and now you're imagining the stock person wearing a cape because this definitely has to be a cover because how could they not know the exact aisle where your childhood lives with it's red fives and blue three dyes and you'll find it yourself when all you really wanted was to get some bread and some cold cuts.

The back of the store is an evil lair. You didn't hear that from me.

And now you're a bit more broke and hey there's a goose by the pond on the way to your place and now you have an excuse to not go outside because geese are foul and you know that was an awful joke but you had to chuckle at your own cleverness if only for a moment before you unload and unwind with your hair that is once more a nest for the birds but not the geese but hey today was productive and you've earned a little rest so kick up your feet with your holey socks and your ever growing list of things you should be doing and have yourself a five minute reward.

No geese were harmed in the scribbling of this message.

To pick up the pen tastes like lime and water with a bit of ice and an acidic tingle that doesn't exactly sit quite right but it's familiar and it clings to your throat in the same old way that it always has and always will because the muscle memory has been there for days, weeks, months, years, and so on and so forth, but it's not quite like riding a bike because there's anxiety that sticks to your teeth and makes it hard to breathe and think and panic panic panic panic but you know the rite and you know the rituals and you've got little things you do to coax yourself into the warm waters of that happy place that you really just invented to convince yourself that this isn't a stupid waste of your time but rather a treasured moment that you must defend and you must convince yourself into cherishing despite that part of you that sits on the other side of the mirror with its hands pressed against the glass that clamors and howls and demands you cease such foolishness because don't you have about a thousand other things you need to do?

Take a deep breath now. Hold it in for a second.

Down it strikes and you cast aside that fragment embedded inside of your head because fuck that voice and fuck that sound because you've gone around and around this silly sense of you must and you must and you must and your head breaks through into the ocean of things you love and the beauty in the world and it takes your breath away but it's not panic panic panic panic because this is closer to awe in the original sense when we still believed in majesty and color and the world wasn't quite so grey with its shortened views because it's just so big and we're so small and why should we not take a moment to breathe in the wonders of the world from the sound of train tracks to the smile of a performer to the curious child to the desire for celebration of an event gone well to the plume of smoke that rises from that loved one's cherried lips after a rough moment and they just need a break and you can't help but fall in love just a little more because how could anyone be so perfect as to create an electric current that runs from their heart to yours and back again in a circuit that others can see in such a way to make them jealous if only because they are alone or their beloved isn't currently present to help them shine.

Breathe in. Relax. Soak it in.

And you remember when you first realized you liked doing this when you realized the only enemy was the blank page and the infinite ways you could fill it with things on your mind or your heart or in the dark little places that make you who you are even if we all have places like that with sable black wings and looming nightmare horses that catch the light and dark just right as to stand as some titan of old when in the proper glow they'd just be the same thing you deal with every day but made unfamiliar and unusual because you're realizing for the first time that you're treading new grounds because how do you describe the tiny fractions of your world through such a clumsy set of tools with rules and guides and a thousand opinions telling you that your talent is threadbare and your prose isn't quite right and there's just no market for your opinions because someone else said it before and don't you know there haven't been any new thoughts in a thousand years but what should you care because you're still trying to find the word for the thousand subdued colors that you see from your kitchen counter as you make your coffee and perform the priestly duties of waking up the divine that resides within you because with a flick of the wrist, the tap of the finger, the snap of synapse you've just brought some half formed thing into existence and you must now give it a suitable form for it's short life before something else occupies your attention.

The buzz fades. Bask in it a moment longer.

The snarling in the back of your head on the other side of the glass does eventually catch your attention and your toast is burning oh no but you can still taste the citric finish of that curious little thought you had just a moment ago and it'll follow you through your day and you'll jot it down eventually where it's lost amidst a thousand little worlds that sit in the bottom of your pocket like a hangover that you only half remember between the sharp bites of the pressing world and the blurry recollection that builds itself into the countless associations you've made as you revel and roll in the words.

Wish this were a cliche Shakur quote

Or something along the lines

of a hallmark card

We switched roles eight years ago

You were always the wild child

Time really does fly mama

He'll be sixteen this month

He misses you

I miss you

It's Mother's Day

And I'm the one he said

"You are appreciated" to

Now where's the sense in that?

Wake up and smell

the coffee mama

You shrugged me off,

As if I wasn't a piece of you.

An entire half of you.

But I was valuable to you.

You needed me as your pawn.

I was the collateral that ensured she would answer when you called.

You shuffled me around that game board, with the confidence of a winner,

And the heart of a cheater.

Like every cheater before you and every other to come after,

you lost.

You don't play any more.

I make the rules now.