Not even an hour late
A veil is shed every other day or so
just when the last change settles,
and the trail is half covered—
moving with the wind, towards an unsought way of life.
And when the day comes,
the light colouring the curtains demands for change—
I might step away from this mirage,
and off this page;
away from the old order that’s too far gone for any repairs,
and rests in ruin: out of order.
A glass is ready to tip off the shelf,
a drawer with its insides jumbled—
a wardrobe unkept.
Covers that beg to be changed,
a carriage full to the brim, spilling upon a touch slight.
I see it all, from within a window of my cell.
A compromise lived leaves little to be claimed
besides fleeting glances into some other life;
only to run back to schedule next week again.
And there's the return from the trip
that pulls on the back for the years that follow next.
And then clarity dawns,
and I seek to foster that which lingered,
and begged to be nestled in perpetuity.
There is a way to forego all shame,
and be a woman: beholden to none.
No sleeves worn in the summer,
neither any sort of cape to say.
The face flourishes under the simmering Sun—
at last, my makeshift glove comes undone.
It never was the first, or the second, or the third;
but in the aftermath the fallen order,
I lived a Summer that doesn't carry last year on its back.
It might as well be another moment in transition,
but a summer spent in peace for once.
Without any live gigs planned,
or the book that gains popularity after death—
I start to fill the empty spaces all by myself.
“A dream it was, to be that.”