Four.

Processing abandonment
Is like walking on
Broken egg shells
That were supposed
To be bulletproof.

1.11.19

Half an hour.

Layers of periwinkle and tangerine sky
Sweep over our cold hair,
And trees flicker by like uncertain sparklers.

Edelweiss and Abba caress our ears;
We steal half an hour of evening-time
To thrust ourselves into nature’s peace.

Silence is sweet, and our thoughts
Are subtle as we lean 

Into the approaching darkness.
In the night,
We are free to be ourselves.

Afternoon’s sun shed light on our 

Shortcomings, but here—
In the car in the dark—
We relax as the moon’s blanket is draped
Over our shivering shoulders.

There is peace in hiding.

There is peace in releasing expectations
With a hissing breath that rolls off 

The open windows into the fading road;
False pretenses disappear

Into the tumbling exhaust.

Half an hour.

Enough time to empty our cups.
Not enough time to fill them back up.

3.19.19