march twenty

you know the way i am now. the piscean swimming in two directions. what i tell you, and what i plan not to-

but do anyway.

i tell you i will see you tomorrow. will collect you if you'd like, or see you later if you'd rather.

i won't tell you i don't know how to will things back. that when i try i squint my eyes closed hard and hope. the same way i make a wish. more so it is the way i pretend it isn't happening.

i won't tell you i don't know how to let go. that i can't scoop the dead ones from the surface. that i leave them be.

i squint and i rock and i see my body in the sediment, rising.

but i tell myself everything. that i hold things close when i try to let them go. that i lose my way even when i'm paying close attention.

because i am the only one present all the time.

i watch myself from afar, and then up close if i am careful. i see myself parade and excite, goose it up and water it down. and keep hope even when part of me has given up and in.

it is powerful, it is naive. mostly it is anything i want it to be. because i know as much as i tell myself i do, and i will fill in the gaps otherwise.

and i'll be there counting no doubt, or marking it down as a day to remember.