i have been here, mostly. unraveling ever so slightly at the ends, sometimes the center. but the sweater was thread bare and everyone needs a little indecent exposure to show what needs to be fixed.
i want to ditch work and go lay on a blanket in the park with a stack of books (poetry, even though i don't usually have a passion for it) and drink wine and eat fruit and bread. i need to soak up the sun and repair what's set on it's side. i have been inside too long. i want to sleep in the grass like i'm still innocent and wrap myself around a brightness i haven't yet lost.
i feel vibrant and obvious and rash.
lush, if waning.
potent, if fading.
surging and blazing and
every other delicious swath of colour that paints me brighter than i actually am.
but what other words can describe without failing the agony and resplendence that is being here.
