What are the things you hold onto?

lavender petals
and oceans of breeze
I twist wind around my fingers
because it’s so free
I cling on to departures
& doorway exit chats
I grip table conversations
where napkins fall to the floor
and we unknowingly
covered in crumbs and crumbled
pastry, coffee and lavender tea
I hold onto
friendships and moments
and when the ground starts shifting
I still
like static wind
like irony

walking those shorelines
and rocky borders
between the heart & mind

on a mend
in an effort to learn
the signature of each lung

with the hope
that this breathlessness
parallels the transience of life

don't forget to look up from the sand,
from the little voice
between the two sounds of a working heart

the ocean raises a salute
for those moments
that never leave us

To have forgotten
a thousand mornings of blaring sun

here, with April on the horizon
and a flit of transitional snow

my heart pulsing in my hands
my soul pulsing in my heart

here, with a new day on the horizon
here, with new places to go

to have remembered
a thousand evenings, a thousand endings

holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it

I feel that same Sunday chaos
in the kitchen, fingers digging
into orange skin

a trailing scent of spring
citrus blooms into the air

here, in this moment
with one hand
and terrible penmanship
I write my name

and with the other
I hold the feeling
of missing things

Here, where they said something about the wind, and I opened my mouth wide for a storm that tasted like sailboats. There, where I stood behind curtains and danced around the idea of being free. Here, where I hopped between puddles, trying to find pockets in the road to bury the rocks from all the silence in my throat. There, where I first learned how it feels to hear yourself, to forgive yourself. Here, where I searched the shoreline, looking for a moon in the reflection and found a fragmented self. There, where I finally stuck my hand into the big belly of fear. Here, where I first learned that it was ok if you didn’t land on your feet. There, where I began to appreciate the weighted days more than light ones. Here, where I tore apart my words and swallowed their jagged edges. There, where I let things go, let things be. Here, where they said something about the wind and I kept my mouth shut, letting the storm pass.

You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.