this strangeness

waking back up to the liquidity of my real life, of life itself, of you over there, us separated by reading ~ perfect automatons fighting to become perfect for the spotlight this fall (always something to look forward to; this could be Your Year, Finally, after All That behind you — surviving is wild; wildflowers over the grave called the present—this is heaven but you’re older; the afterlife wasn’t supposed to begin like this

so you write another story, autobiography, tear some layers, listen to your soul: now your life is lined up for this, the spring wound tight, ready to burst, and you the loosener letting the flames up, a temper tantrum waiting in the wings, a show that must go on