Week 52

How strange is it
that time flows
forwards and backwards
but not in any specific way.

Here I am in the future
but here I am, also,
in my past.

I see the way she reached out to me
as a child,
terrifying me.
I see the way he reaches out to me now,
equally terrifying
but in a completely different manner
and I live completely caught between
these two moments.
Neither of them are any less a part of me.

That is why you see
a part of the whole,
why melancholy and joy
mold together in unanimous jumble
and sometimes a song makes me cry.

None of us are isolated,
within us,
within me,
the turmoil of perfection
mixes with the imperfection
of my childhood,
my broken relationships,
my disappearing friendships.

I write
and I write
and sometimes I surprise myself.
I am no musician but
it becomes music,
only unsung.





It is complete.