9/19

There is so much
going on inside my soul, but I cannot get it out.
I want to scribble on the walls,
fling wide the doors and windows and huddle
in a pile of cold.
Run until my knees give out, at night and into dawn-
stain my hands purple with sunset and wildflowers.

I want to rip the pages out of this book
and make you eat them so you understand
the tired.

To erase my trail and melt back into yellow, European sidewalks.

I want to laugh with the cold wind and have it be normal-
to love the snow.

solitude-
no. I will not help you with this good thing. I am resting.

If the floor was made of linoleum I would let the rain in. Splash the puddles on the floor.