No. 8 – Flight Risk

All these girls
are greener than grass.
We gauge the days
according to definitions
of home:
a place for returning,
a place for leaving.

And I can strip it
down to nothing,
then stack them back —
bricks and bones —
but still can’t build
what I do not know.

Cold hands,
cold heart —
and the old man warned me.
We are always
half in
and half out of the world.

We split the dawn and dark.
And I have no need
for chained or knotted strings.
It’s the unfolding story
that keeps me bound
to these pages.

And with nothing
to reciprocate,
I might as well
hold my tongue.

The sun is choosing
where to shed
its rising light,
and I follow music
through a fog
settled low,
waiting for
inevitable flight.


About Emily

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

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