There is an interesting thing about memory foam. It yields to your touch & pressure. Not fast, not reacting. More like an indulgence, a consideration. Later it pauses with the impression you’ve left on it, as if ruminating. Just as meditatively it returns to its original self.
It isn’t intimacy unless it feels a little tender.
A lovely return to my late 20s where books absorbed me with a rigour I did not experience in my social or professional life. It was like coming home.
A house that is a warzone. A courtroom for custody battles. Dumping ground for other people’s pain. My body.
If I were fifteen years younger, I’d identify as nonbinary. Gender has been the biggest weapon of the beaten path.
Feeling the tug between two places – one that feels like home and one that is dutifully home.
I have poems by old lovers,
not about me
not the loves,
not the poetry.
The second dark COVID of my soul is here except it doesn’t feel quite as dark. I feel stupid and it is peaceful.
The world still doesn’t know how & why death shows up. How can there be any answer to why people turn out the way they do?
Giving sex an easy place in my mind, required moving around the furniture inside my head – old traumas, inherited shame, cultural taboos. This book taught me flying.