Every day I sit, staring at my vacant bookshelf, and I remember...

just
give
me
my
freaking
books
back
already
because
i
cant stop...
cantstopdwelling,
cantstopremembering
cantstopcantstopcantstop,
hyperventilating

I am here now; I am home now, and everything's OK. I've moved on, gone on, have so much to do that I cannot stop to reflect. And maybe it was all good like I told myself before; I learned so much...realized so much. Realized my ability to be strong and independent and self-sufficient as I found myself suddenly alone and trudging about in a foreign country.

Yet it isn't fair. That is a painful way to learn a wonderful lesson. So many wonderful lessons I've learned in this manner. Too much at stake here. Too much pain. Maybe, melodramatic. Maybe, maybe...

I am proud of who I am, but why...

eyelids dissolve into face
face dissolves into body
body dissolves into floor
into red rug from aunt amy
into dust
into dreams..
into photos..
into shadows..
into memory..

the collective white space in the story. all that goes unsaid.





blankess suffocates.




empty





bookshelf.