There are centers of gravity, everywhere, always. Signs of normalcy, of self. And then there are the moments that break such crying clouds, burst forth with life that shatters even the wings of wicked birds, that beg forgiveness with all blood of the skies.
I can't crawl back inside of the moments I might need: I am already forgetting. Voices echo from other places, wells of mourning. Some throw their hands up in the sky, others hang their heads in shame. And I remain, harshly hollow, on the other end of it all. I can hear their laughter; I can feel the fat of tears. And yet nothing touches me, there is no fingerprint found on my skin. Embraces, candy kisses are somehow foreign, sugar free.
I want to say that I don't care.
But that would be my mask, merely. It would be another layer under which to hide the youngest, rawest, most un-ready part of me. It would be another racket to drown out the real, wretched sound. The silence.
