One benefit to shooting without sharing (for months) is that I don't know where the "I am" was.

Where is this? I don't know. Who was I? I tell myself I know. Is that an elevator? Am I in Texas?
Was I pushing through the day because the days have continued to wrap my feet like rainforest cotton?

I don't fear I'm going to disappear anymore. Perhaps that means it's already happened.
Then what is this?

Pretty much life is standing on some floor in some building in some dress

with some kind of thinkingfeeling face turned to the light.

My sleeves gather at the wrists as the blood runs through them consistently. Maybe there is a person waiting for me.
(Is there? Do I hope there is?)

What am I doing here, using this abstract language that builds a barrier between me and, now, no one?
I know that one day I'm going to look back at this, too, and see clearly what I believe is so well hidden, even I can't spy it.
Well, I know I might.

That's all making things has taught me. If I say otherwise, refer here.

* * *

I'm feeling romantic lately with no recipient. It's begun to make it clear that the recipient is me.
Today I bought myself tulips with grass still on the edges of their blooms.
I put my face in them and breathed deeply like one might breath against a shoulder.

Dear tulips, dear nose, dear grocery store, dear blood moving in the wrists, 

you smell lovely.