The Transient

Stop. Sit down. Force myself to put pen to paper. I’ve been taking more baths lately. February is so cold, and short, and blue. I sit in the water and read novels warped by my wet hands. Waiting for something – like holding my breath. Tension between the shoulders. Legs too long to keep the knees from drying off. I want – so endlessly – without form or reason. Wanting just for the sake of it. Too much. Too little. I went silent for a while. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe I’m not just words. But still, things linger. Things insist – images cut, like light through a dark room. So it’ll have to be different this time. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not who I used to be, and I don’t miss it, but change is always hard. I thought I would be used to it by now. After all, how many times can you pack up your life before everything starts to seem transitory? Maybe this is only a phase too. Maybe I’m just like the moon. The water pulls towards me when I get up, and still, I’m waiting for something…


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