I could say many things
about the haziness of sleep deprivation,
how muted I feel when it’s balmy outside,
the anxiety that oscillates
with every lost moment where
I’ve forgotten to care for myself.
(This is frequent.)
I could write volumes
on the yearning feeling I get
just after I shout,
that scrawny mite of pride
when I make it somewhere on time,
the wonder of watching the sun both
set and rise sequentially.
(This is not often enough.)
I could say many things about
the iridescence of someone else’s eyes,
the bound of pleasure that accompanies
constructing a mound of words,
the glimmer of relief when I polish a plate.
(I’m trying, I’m trying,
I’m truly trying.)
I want to feel butterflies in my footsteps
and gold in every crevice of my brain
but I’m not there yet.