Looking into someone’s eyes is difficult, for me.
I’m not worried about what I’ll find, I’m worried that I won’t find enough of it.
So I hide a lot. I twist, bury, shy away, close up, curl up, shut up.
I am still a child, afraid of looking under the bed.
Only sometimes, I fear emptiness more than monsters.
I fear floorboards, timber and a cold white wall
All-consuming silence and nothing to prepare for
Just the funnel’s end of all wisdom: keep on keeping on,
And maybe tomorrow it will all make sense,
Maybe in an hour or maybe yesterday,
I am losing something every day,
A second, a breath, a laugh, a memory,
That’s what memories are, don’t you know?
Lost pieces of ourselves,
Comfort in distance.