You are the pen, the ink.
Your blood is what you drain as you sculpt the stories of your life

but the skies look so much more beautiful,
wherever you are

Does it matter how? Does it matter why, or when?
Or does it only matter,
that it matters

To create good art
we are tasked with removing our masks,
with allowing ourselves to become vulnerable
to everything that surrounds us.
Everything we may have otherwise
been protecting ourselves from
so that we,
in these fleeting moments,
can allow ourselves to feel enough
to be moved

We become exposed,
everything once muted shifted raw.
You let down your walls as you take up
that pen
that brush,
whatever tool it is that’s capable
of carving you out of yourself,
and a weight you otherwise never notice
becomes pressing.
The awe and wonder of being Here at all
suddenly, almost too much,
flooding into you, through you
like liquid light.
All of it visceral, every second surreal.
You catch your breath and try to bear it,
to not burn up in the white hot heat of it
as you channel it,
this feeling of living, out of you
onto the canvas or the page,
as a song into the air,
or a debut across the stage

and when you are Here,
everything is beautiful.

And everything hurts

There is always the subtle sensation that something is missing
Even when I distract myself, it persists
A nagging question
Like there is something important and I can’t find it, and I need it,
Like misplaced keys or sunglasses
except I never know exactly what it is that I feel I’ve misplaced,
because it’s not a thing that I can flip the couch cushions and find, it’s you

Lean into me
and I can show you
how I move while standing still

How I fall into the sky,
feet firm against the ground
but flying high,
among the clouds

just by looking in your eyes