Warmest Regards

Warmest, sincerest, kindest regards.
Returning home to the many things.
All of my little bugs.
Accompanies by the thoughts of Kafka’s big ones.
I read, I write, I wait and I run.
I cant believe my mother is gone.
It seems unreal.
I have dormant feelings.
Lost, fractured pieces of myself have died and await burial.
My memories scattered.
Ashen faced. Distant.
My otherness, removed, afraid and angry.
To have left a great many friends in Canada. To decide to not return, to turn my back on the cold weather that would have so-suited my icy temperament.
I see my brother and sister.
Red faces, larger than life in their emotions.
I can see them stored, suffering sadness.
My exhaustion is three fold.
My tiredness is manifold, as I resort to my recovery manifesto.
And my knee aches as my heart does.
With scars for memory.
Muted, silver grey. And I fear i’ll lose my lunch at the viewing.
It will hit. Hit home.
And I will be full of dread. Full.
Sick with it. Confronted, and torn down.
Wrecked in the storm of conflicting seas.
Where my hot blood of anger rises against my cold removal.
The forgotten tsunami, seen in the tumult that passes beneath unseen.
Waves and a frigid breeze that have clashed within me -everternal.
In this life for me, this occupational flux, where I once stood, now stands a building. Where I was on the ground at gravity’s zero.
Now resides a thing of man-made rock. Not timeless, not indestructible.
Time will turn that stone to sand.
Rubble and ruin, flakes and ashes.
All for the downstream; where I question the nature of the infinity of rocks.
Sand becomes it all where we break down-
Bust and leak, swell and groan.
Our last breaths, before we are washed away.
In a storm, a hell-kite’s memory,
Wind whipped tears.
And you pass on, despite your years.
Too soon, and sick. Afraid and broken.
Memory gone, your own that is.
I tried, I tried I tried.
But I wasn’t there.
And now I feel the turn of my stomach,
The ache of my bones. The swell of my eyes, my heart.
The blister of my lips. The jelly that resides under the lids-
cries in goodbyes as we wade through a forbade farewell.
Something we never gave up hope on, and we resolve as the circle of life.
But your own spiral is the tragedy.
We have named this circular motion of life.
And in the bigger picture we have called it zero.
This resonates oft with me these days.
It brings about a resigned and resolute sigh.
A significant vein has been tapped.
Dripping all it ever once stored.
Its ok to cry.
“Don’t listen to what they say about men crying”.
What a strange woman. What a dastardly character.
The moles on the face. The crop top.
Long lunches, lashes and lost or half formed ideas.
*awwww gawd* I say suffering my circumstance, speaking while sucking in air.
and my airs, like my hairs split.
Choosing to suffer.
Always

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