The sun has set and risen,
the ground has iced and thawed,
the moon has been reborn many times over,
and I haven’t written in a year.
There has been an eerie silence in my days;
rushed hugs and startling shame
fading as I run my fingers over the memories—
their sharp details buffed and rebuffed.
There is the vague warmth
of my best friend’s smile;
there is a discomforting notion
of being on a bathroom floor—
memories perhaps best consigned
to intimate stories and sighing recollection,
shared in moments of bravery
or rotated endlessly at night.
But I’ve missed poetry.
I missed the consideration of every breath-word.
I missed writing a line that feels too honest
and refusing to erase the feeling.
Writing was my way
of making sense of myself,
and now, I think—
it becomes a way to be known.