Going at lengths attempting to explain the year that was

You find it difficult to come back to the year that was. Slumped on your bed, knitted wool blanket covering your legs, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning unit and the loop of Explosions In The Sky’s Your Hand In Mine, which you set on repeat, you start the initial draft with “I”. Three minutes later, you stop. You highlight everything. Delete. You start again.

And wasn’t that the point of this year for you? Starting again.

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Fished out of water –

“Too much water in your head,” they said when she finally rose from the sea: feet having turned to tail, flaunting fins and scales chipping off as sand chafed her hips; her fingers tinged with the taste of coral-coated dreams, and when she spoke to tell them of what she saw while away wading through a world untouched by sun, salt floated from her tongue: trailing a path through air, eventually settling to dissolve in the skin of the sea.

Traces of Sand (Part 1)

Just a little erasures project. From things my friends wrote.

After Shane Carreon’s From Tales From The Village

The dead were found from nowhere,
a dark swarm cautiously opening, listening:

disturbed, last night at the dead end
a girl was wrapped in her room: out of season.

(Re)vision After Tin V. Lao

He looks
with longing thrust

in his frail notebook, a spider lives
to know that a child could destroy

the universe. In love’s afterglow,
after a long pause, “a bit

cruel.” How I loved
his story.

The Slow Road After Philline Donggay

Somewhere, somehow, you survive.
Forgive yourself. How people deal with falling:

your long-time friend makes sure
it helps. Your illusions fight

against alcohol. You had stopped yourself
from writing. He takes

a bite. You work and work.
We shouldn’t ruin ourselves.

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fished out of the water

Because the truth is I force myself to forget how these things feel – saltwater on our feet, later flowing into my throat (an accident, as with everything between those people who wear our names like seaweed caught between their teeth), the sound of our barely-human voices deep into the night, the reason behind the bringing of the camera yet the refusal to use it, flash a few lights, lead the way across rock and sand and boulder, toss stones out to sea, capture whatever there was of those few moments marked by the swift shadows of mermaids and minute fish, flying through the moonlight and the mountain following waves following why and when and what, finally falling into the singular sharp syllable of wait