What did I find
That slipped joy into place
so completely
That I don't need to write?

I am still tired,
still worn,
but it does not crush,
not like it used to.

What has filled me,
that there is no more room
for words of pain to leak out
in ink?

The itch grows
and twists
and prickles
more and more
the closer and closer
I get to relief

I can't decide if it is strength,
my choosing to stay,
or weakness.

Running home,
exhausted, the tail end of sick,
it seems like the easy option.

But staying,
staying is maintaining the status quo,
even though that "quo"
feels like having my shoulder
against a moutain pushing back.

I want to die-
I have never been this sick
and never been so sick
as to be unable to function
twice in one year.
I already did my time,
dammit.
I am miserable
and have no recourse.

All I can think of
is going home.
Quitting,
throwing in the towel,
a disappointment.

I hang on anyway,
for now.

Barcelona

Too much history,
too much to see,
to do,
I have to come back.
Maybe not this year,
Maybe not this month,
but one day.

I will see this place again,
uncover more of her stories
and food and joys.

The bus ride is long,
winding through moutains and history
to find its way
to an old city
I know stories of,
and now I can touch its stones.

Of course,
the first thing I truly do
is wind my way
into a salsa lesson.

Strange,
perhaps,
to think of these waiters
as "my boys,"
but I do.
I'm borderline regular now
and I feel a strong loyalty to this place.
Do they think about me
When I fail to show up?

This is a calmer place,
where the slow day,
the steady trickle,
is honored.
Doucement, doucement,
take your time to eat and drink,
take your time
but live to the best
and the fullest.
Live the good life.

The air turns cold
but I do not-
my hands and face
turn red with the chill
but my heart stays warm.

I've only been working
barely a month,
but I already want a break.
Good thing this is France
so I'll start the new month with one.

Zutara Month day 23 - Colors

Blue is tinged with sadness.
It’s long nights hiding grief in tradition,
unable to sleep,
wanting something better than insomnia
and a feeling of deep loss.

Red is violence,
a scar dashed across young skin-
Red is a burn,
a rash,
flaring hot-
and it’s tears of anger
rolling down a betrayed face.

But blue is also calm-
the sky on a clear day,
the mountains standing strong in the distance,
her eyes smiling.
It’s the peace and hush of winter
curled up with the one you love.

Red is also passion,
love dancing across the sky in fireworks
and dances that leave the heart racing,
and the color of their sheets.
It’s a summer sunset on a beach
and the mixed drinks by their side.

And no matter when or where
these two lovers go,
they take these colors with them.

Zutara Day 22 - Warmth

Warmth is his hands,
Strong, stretched out,
reaching for her waist,
for someone to save,
for the stars.

Warmth is her smile,
Bright, spread out,
grinning for laughter,
for the hunt,
for victory.

Warmth is the lines between them
blurred,
crossed out,
unwritten
until you’re not sure
where one begins and ends.

Warmth is his heart
Still beating under ribs
that have seen lightning-

Warmth is her hands
reaching to comfort,
to save,
to steal back life from death.

Bright is their future,
and together,
it is full of warmth.

Zutara Month Day 20 - Electric Love

A breath-
lungs catch-
a sigh-

eyes meet
and the Earth moves-
it turns and spins as always
but this bit’s special,
different,
and nothing will be the same.

Their hands recoil instinctively,
flex,
stretch,
reach,
touch-

light a thousand candles
with the brilliance of their smile.

I believe I know why my poetry has slipped away-
it's a many pronged reason,
but I've been turning to prose
more and more,
using the descriptive tone I've crafted
to weave stories
around other's characters.
This isn't a problem,
per se,
but I'll have to remember to come back
and feed the poetic muse
who still watches me
with too-lovely eyes
even if she's holding her tongue.

Classes start again,
and I'm followed by the knowledge
that for the first time
I have missed my goal.

I have steadily written more poems each year,
by differing margins,
and I'm sad that last year,
the year with such change and emotional upheaval
should be the year I falter.

What will happen the calm years?
Will there be calm years?
Perhaps I should stretch my poetic muscles,
take up a new theme
or device to practice
for when my life is contentment
not frantic anxiety.

Sick and sad,
n'aime pas,
wrapped in a blanket
alone on my couch,
New Year rung in alone,
my love a thousand miles away.