I am writing again
in a way that feels new and familiar
like when I first learned to read and the words took time to rise in my mind, whole and full of meaning
the way you make me feel, whole and full of meaning.
and I am trying to not be this girl, the one that needs things she cannot give herself.
No man is an island but some women are
I can feel the land under me changing and I no longer stand on solid ground,
or maybe I am just used to the shifting tides and things that are only alive under the pull of the moon.
I am writing again and better than I used to,
the lines coming as easy as your hand on the small of my back the soft patch of skin at the nape of my neck guiding me towards
everything I ever wanted everything that I most fear.
Are you a muse or maybe just a lover or the striking surface on a matchbox.
I am writing again,
and it feels good.
The first warm day after a long winter the sunshine sinking into your bones making you remember how to move your body again
Making you remember what it felt like when everything worked just like it should
When the evening air was a kiss on your shoulder,
making you remember that you are alive alive alive.
My writing is that of a different girl,
one I only used to glimpse out of the corner of my eye, at the edge of a poem, a melody you can’t quite place but know means something.
This girl knows the difference between want and need: that want is a ramshackle house at the edge of a cliff and need is a house by the sea and either can be a home, but not forever.
I am writing again, but just for now.