CXCV

My body yearns

To come home

To your body

It does not know

Yet

That it’s room has been foreclosed

All of it’s traces removed

Perhaps on loan to someone new

Bulldozed altogether

Who knew

It could be leased a new life

Before you.

[Image: Unkown]

LVII

Today I did not one productive thing. Is this permissable within a week of returning from (a long and mind blowing, hot-sun-ruddy-cheeks-wide-eyes kind've) holiday? When there is so much to be done? Surely not. And yet here I am, still standing. I seem to do no-productive-thing more and more often these days, in an attempt to understand what it even means to be productive, and whether the things we ought to do really are the things we ought to do...? That aside - these musings shall perhaps rear their head more substantially later - consider yourself warned that I have just returned from said glorious holiday, and that telling images will soon surface with all the expected #wanderlust to ensue and #humblebrag-ging, etcetera.

xo

[Image: Oracle Fox]

XLII

Home. 

[Images: Personal collection]

XXXV

I dread the mornings because they're where your absence finds me. Like a dark bird, like a damaged nerve, the mornings are when I feel that you are not there. And I can over come, and I can soldier on, and I can get up and start my routine and busy myself and wait for your return - which is glorious, by the way, and sweet as strawberries, and delightful as anything else in the world - but the mornings will always come. And the absence. And the longing. And the aching effort of quashing my resent and distracting my mind and soothing my heart with other pretty and wonderful things. Always, the morning comes. Always the absence.

But then, in the same vein, always the coming home. Without the one there is no other. This is the perspective I try so hard to hold.

V

"Maybe I could stay a while... I'm talkin bout all of the time." 

- 'A Face to Call Home', JM

(Image: Nirrimi)