Do you think about the dinosaurs?
What about the dodos?
Not the band, the bird.
Do you still have my book?
The one I let you borrow,
oh so long ago, when all of *this,*
did not exist between us?
What is *this,* you ask?
I think that’s up for you to decide.
For me, *this* is learning to grieve,
to keep living even when I’m tugged
towards the unknown.
*This* is finding paths for
distractions to become joys.
*This* is finding energy
and handing it to my heart,
gift-wrapped with a little tag
quoting Mary Oliver.
*This* might be nothing for you.
You might not even remember
all that was…
Hell, perhaps you lost my book.
One day I’ll reach out again,
using the book as both
excuse and knife
to cut the cords wrapped
around my wrists.
So It Goes 