Picking through the remains of a life uprooted, pulling out the strands of survival still connected to the light

like just another day, a new again. Taste the thrill and tang of novelty, the price of it - threatens to weigh heavy, a necklace of bones around your neck.

When does grieving become a celebration? I ask the sky - we’ve been waiting for the end so long, patience stretched, fingers drumming on chests and tables a syncopatic dirge,

the birds chirp sympathetic, beaks scraping on bark that could be what’s left of me that’s left. The sound of edges meeting, something’s shut, just a snip.

Eventually I’ll quit digging through the dirt, recall once there was a goodbye.

On the cards,
the queens and aces,
the way they fall
open on the table. Hands.
I almost sleep, feline curved
around lilting conversation,
a laugh and it carries like almost love
on air suddenly we are walking
full sun and sidelong glances,
I’ve never felt so seen,
so long, it’s unreal how this is.
Magic. A sl(e)ight of mind,
the curtains rise, and life waves
its empty sleeves, hearts drop.

Hello darkness my old friend

believe, just barely, in second chances;

hope is a window cracked just an inch

to let a little bit of you drift across my cheek, like a spring breeze

two months too early, some gentleness

to clear my chest heaving

heavy with winter weight. life sits like

snow sometimes, waiting for the weather

to break and shatter the burden into a million melting pieces,

to start over, another opportunity

to recreate a feeling worth living in:

paint the walls peachy, lay some rugs so we can lie

on a soft floor, marveling how all light, all time bends through the motes of our existence. it’s a dream -

a love like holding the sun (illusory),

easily in my hands yet out of reach, too much too ask

to ever really touch, not for want of trying. but still.

the more is a warm thought; some might call it

optimism (or…

lydiaroberts:

Untitled, 2023

Trebinje

Lydia Roberts

How being an adult never really gets easier. How you habituate to that dull relentless pain of the mundane - sleeping, cooking, working, washing, cleaning, fixing - all the little things that become big things like the neverending list of demands placed on you by others/society/yourself. That heaviness you feel? That’s your worth, judged in likes and hours and dollars and steps. The journey is the goal, is a trudge to a distant finish line, always shifting. Just a little further, always a little more. You can do it - you have no choice, but you have a hunch. Somehow, reluctantly, inevitably, that gravity dragging on your shoulders becomes a comfort. It’s cold. Welcome home, it lives here now. You can’t afford to move.

The depth of an empty table in an empty restaurant, measured in heartbeats and deep breaths. It’s just you and me, babe, this dark corner and all that distance from here to the counter. Eyes meet with lukewarm banter, too cold for it - but how about this weather, aye? Discuss business like it matters, like we exist purely in transactions; give a little, take a little, here’s your change in small pieces. The weight sits in my pocket like cold hands, counted silent as I duck out the door, escaping this heat, into the rain.

kragehund-est:

i want people to appreciate pigeons. not “ehehe skrunkly little trash gremlins. so adaptable and resilient”. nothing wrong with that sentiment towards racccons and opossums, but when people do this about pigeons, it shows a fundamental misunderstanding about a pigeon’s place in the world.

pigeons were beloved. they were pets, they were tools, they were food. we found use and pleasure in everything about them. then they became obsolete. then they stopped being popular. an animal that we have literally thousands of years of deep history with, completely discarded by mankind to the point most people are ignorant of their existence outside of “rats with wings”.

(via hartenlust)

ololygas:

(via insomniac-dot-ink)