April 14, 2026

a place for everything

except that feeling of trying not to want too much, or the irrepressible fear
of not doing enough, or guilt wagging its insolent finger those days
tiredness cleaves us from our purpose. And where to put this yearning
for summer, the snap of a bathing suit strap on a warmed shoulder
smelling of coconut? Or that one conversation we want to claw back
to say what we really meant to say? The scatter of almost and if only,
the confetti of dares we could not dare ourselves to throw, the haunting
shadow of any longing. Come. Let us rage against exactitude.
Let us rejoice in these places of placelessness, cracks where our least
agile selves feel their clumsy best, and our mumblings a strangely
coherent music. Here is an odd-fitting dress that doesn’t lean
on our performance and a mud puddle and a quiver of bent angles
we can aim, inexpertly, at anything we want and still hit a bullseye.