Stasis is Discomfort

Still learning how to let go. I’ve got this ache, this – ribcage spreading. I never want to leave and I never want to stay. There is too much sidewalk these feet haven’t touched yet. There is too much world these eyes haven’t absorbed. There is too much experience this body hasn’t held. These hands have touched so many surfaces, held so many moments at their fingertips, made connections and gripped, overflowed with seafoam, run through pine needles, caught raindrops. These hands have held snowflakes for brief half seconds and caught me when I’ve fallen. These hands have caressed and loved. These hands have fought and held on for dear life. These words do so little justice to a life lived – expansive. A body knows. A body feels it – to bone center, marrow deep. This heart has enveloped and closed off. What would it not give to be again – nostalgia. A draw backwards from the center of the chest, tightening and prepared for a snap as the body pulls forward from the navel, desperately trying to take another step. Stasis is discomfort. Emotion lies in the past as thoughts reach for the future, but the body is caught here – wherever and whenever here at any moment of time might signify – I am a divisible creature. Attempting to coagulate, spread thin and separating. Losing bits here and there while collecting detritus, collecting pearls and hording. In this. In these words. It’s all right here. A body open on a table – dissection. Picking at, reviewing and pushing things aside to see effect. She can’t sit still, doctor. She keeps saying death is waiting somewhere and she can’t find him. Her feet keep twitching. And when I went to check on her she was gone. But she left me a love letter.

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