the act of poetry. the pulse of melodies blown under my fingertips. the beloved's seconds of veraciousness wrapped in kisses shot directly into jarred skin. the husband's unrelenting pilgrimage to remain in hesitant veins. flipping through poured pages that break me into pieces and make me struggle for my next breath. the struggle between scratching of the pen and the breakthrough of rattling syllables. being in a constant state of creation. pillows that allow my head to sink lower than the horizon. bursts of autumn air while looking at sunshine filtered through clouds. steaming mugs of chai tainted with vanilla and memory. the extinct stories of my family tree swinging longing into a knot of the debilitating mind of my grandmother. the laughter of womanhood honeycombed for and against me. meshing the edges of my tongue with the decadence of future decay. the creak of a door opening inside of my head. the silent continuous shift of this cognizance sitting in my skin infinitely.
This is what comes out when connecting with others on Facebook and commenting on statuses. Even I am a little surprise of this answer. For now, I will leave this as it is. But I want to play with this in the future. If only time would allow me to really dig deep into some of my writing these days.
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