In the early morning,
the world is still.
A gust of wind shakes a leaf,
and the gathered dewdrops rain on the ladybird
hiding in the shade.
The crows exchange their daily greetings
as they tear into the rotting flesh of a rabbit.
By the field of flowers,
a newly-hatched butterfly flies from daisy to daisy,
anxious to live, to taste, to touch
before its week of life runs out.
The world is still as ever,
and the day would age and depart as it always did–
My days are empty,
only set apart by the succession of
light and dark.
The hours tick by and I am still fasting,
abstaining from words that my mouth
itches to speak.
There’s a furled ball of stillborn words
that have been gathering in my throat,
blocking air and restricting my chest.
I am no longer a leaf travelling
as far as the wind could take me–no.
Somewhere along the way, I became
one out of many that are
held tightly by the branches of this
deeply rooted tree.
He and I,
we’re sitting side by side on a Sunday night,
watching mindless TV.
He puts his arm around my back,
his hand playing with the ends of my hair carelessly,
as I put my head on his shoulder.
We don’t say a word.
The audience in the show laughs
and I feel his chest shake under my hand.
My mind starts to wander
while I think of puzzle pieces and the two faces of a coin
before I have an epiphany:
I can’t tell anymore
where he starts and I end.