What is it like,
to believe?
Is it sweet, like
juice from a fresh apricot
running down your chin?
Is it chilling, like
a drive late at night
with all the windows down?
Can you tell me,
please?
I’ve been thinking
about my life, as I tend to do
when October rolls around.
The holes that once perforated
my body are not as numerous
as they once were.
It doesn’t sting as bad, either.
Yet, never did I imagine this day,
nor the ones of last year,
or two years before that,
or two years before that.
I’m not sure what to do
with these thoughts —
existing like ghosts of past selves.
They litter my dreams
and the quiet shelves
of my heart.
How much do you believe?
Is it measurable by the
length of my arms
surrounding you?
Is it quantified by the
number of leaves
covering your backyard?
Can you count them
and let me know?
My heart beats slowly,
as if contesting each breath
entering my lungs.
Yet, I carry on,
hoping to learn more
about what’s kept me here.
Maybe it’s some form of a
beautiful reciprocal arrangement —
if you catch my reference.
So It Goes 