But then a roaming energy stops and feels alive
and even though you can’t yet find feathers to fly,
you can hear what’s unseen wisping reminders of time,
they’re waiting for you to be solitary in stillness,
waiting for you to feel kind enough
to unbind yourself from the grind —
soon enough your fingers start melting into themselves,
and you’re finally holding your own hands,
tracing lines falling into crevices carving smooth palms,
with nails beautifully broken and brittle
smothered in exhaustion and chipped nail polish,
and legs so tired of walking for show,
forced into prancing pretty dances
and all-time lows.
