If you’re reading this, if there’s air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren’t finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are still going, you and I. We are stories still going.
But what about me? I’ve been melted into something
too easy to spill.
—Brenda Shaughnessy, from “Liquid Flesh” (via oofpoetry)
A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.
—A Single Man (2009)
Fallen from focus, streetlamps turn to faint
plots. Anything we ever said in confidence
is now lost among wintered statues,
your cemetery and its white lawn of concrete teeth.
The city is still a patchwork: the spilt light
of unlocked trees, a broken moon’s
better shade. Beyond all that we lie together
in some unnumbered room reserved for memory.
Please, it’s dark out. Wait. The windows
won’t have anything for us till morning.
— adam o. davis