You’re losing yourself
again.
Breathe.
You are alone in a nightclub.
Not alone. By yourself
in the middle of a crowd.
Music—
Huns at the gate clamoring
and hammering and pressing
into your ears harder
than your hands.
Breathe.
Your heart should be timid—
a child knocking at the bottom
of the door—
a tiny Dracula hand clinging
to mom’s leg and an octave below a whisper:
“trick or treat.”
Breathe.
You are an island, cut loose
without an anchor.
A vessel, really.
But vessels can float
even when waves slap—
the jump and volley of open palm
against synthetic leather.
Breathe.
You are a harbor—
arms encircle me, the ropes and moorings.
The soft smell of pine and vanilla
and ocean.
But the ocean is your eyes
and I can’t be the dam anymore.
Breathe.
You’re losing yourself
again.
JKolasch
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