in the silence i try and meet myself.
but words are less help here than sitting in the shower and letting the warm water rain down on you.
it’s therapy.
my childhood hides in the drain.
and you are here, sitting with me,
just sitting.
you never mind doing just that.
words are exchanged without sonority;
a slight hum of your love is enough to heal every broken thought i’ve adopted and called my own.
the newspapers never get it.
the text is always black and white, lacking depths, lacking color.
life isn’t like that.
it’s greys and browns, and sometimes a brilliant flash of red or yellow; and the editor always says it’s a printing mistake.
it’s never a mistake;
all the black and white and cheap composite paper is a mistake.
i can see it in their eyes, as they can see it in mine,
i hope.
the longing is too great to actualize, so we watch movies, read books, and live vicariously through the lens of a borrowed life.
daytime television costs more than Gucci.
watching children play gives me a glimpse into the heavenlies.
the curtains pull back and i reel hard, memories i never memorized flood my infant mind and my imagination never made the credits.
whose voice is that then?
this spirit you gave me is too great.
how am i supposed to wield this?
the desire crushes me,
this hope destroys everything in its path.
where is the mighty mountain of God?
where is YHWH?
is he so close that i have forgotten him, like the spine in my back that holds my form together?
but i crucified myself,
whose cross is this?
the weight of it gives me a strange peace.
i see the hill, seemingly distant and dark,
yet i know it is close.
i know that hill.
i will go to die,
again.
you cannot take this from me.
i can hear the thunder in the distance.
the unworthy wanderer 