rain

slept two whole days.
the migraine
making its way out of me.
vertical for awhile,
hands found their way back to the piano forte.
but today, unlike most,
i could not play my own tunes.

Chopin nocturne in G minor.
muscle memory repeating shapes...
sounds of a melody once echoed in my ear...
attempting to recreate the brilliant composer.

then back to this screen.

i wish to make it out the door, to run free.
smell the wet grass and
hear the whispers in the trees.
watch the sky turn to dark night
and let the divinity fill my spirit
and make me whole again.

I am no longer afraid of the beauty i hold.
Nor do i wish to conceal it
in hopes of relating to others.
if melancholy truth restricts a friendship
then it is a friendship i care not to own.

sober.
surrounded by intoxicated fools.
cowards connecting with liquid yeast & fruit.
red velvet blankets
warming
& tickling their souls.

if i make it out the door.
i'll find my way home.
where that is
i soon hope to know.