and it wont be the last. something about the dark places in the sky where the moonlight is not just draws the words from my insides. i think they were harboring somewhere under my ribcage, and got stuck in my throat on the way out. but out they swim, into the room that feels like a night breeze, despite all the wool. they swirl around, and some of them strike my eardrums, and they find each other. like magnets, they find the ones they belong beside. like yarn, they knot themselves up into a sentence.
I’ll wear them like a story, and dress up in a tale of imagination. of what? imagining what? itself. each other. more words. they dance. it’s letters, buzzing around in the hive of my midnight labyrinth mind. out of the shadows, out of the thorns, come words from those letters. which sift like a hand in a barrel of dry beans or a bag of rice, sift for the ones they belong after, and belong before. how to tell their story. i sit in a word trance, a helpless vessel to myself and the Artist, and I knit these words. they wait for the brisk penstrokes to catch up, for I’m just barely not quick enough, and they loop around. patiently they repeat and repeat, again and again, but annoyingly so, they loop.
and i look at florescent lights. and the air hits my lungs, and the last few words trickle out like trembling crumbs at the bottom of the crumpled bag. and just like that.
loops in the word-yarn.
that’s why I write.