Indian Summer

Push a blunt needle
Through calloused skin.
Indian summer
Wants blood.

Waiting for
December’s dark,
Every breaking
Begins in these fissures
Born of rigidity.

And we are still learning
To bend.

And we are still learning
That alone or lonely
Is a matter of perspective.

And we are still learning
That both are lies.

For all this railing
Against the clock,
There is little point to it —
Nor does there need to be.

And it isn’t a lack of will.
And it isn’t a lack of faith.

We have everything
We need,
But find our all
Is wanting.

So we intentionally
Lose the way,
Overwhelmed by the weight
Of emptiness
That gathers near the ends
Of these paths to self.

Pick a shadow.
Watch it lengthen
Into another season
Of misses.

But for all of this noise,
The focus sharpens
In time.
The world sings with it.

And I guess it’s better
To keep heading
The wrong way
Than it is
To go nowhere at all.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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