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  • 1.
    I lost, I lost, I lost.
    There is no word to put after loss.
    I simply did.

    Not a person, not a thing, but I lost.
    That is enough.
    Failure, confidence, the presence of a rod between my chest,
    if I hold close with both hands, I grasp at thin air.

    He said I should feel this strength.
    This pillar centering my body, but I pat aimlessly and feel.
    I lost, I lost her, I lost it.
    I lost so many things and hands try to grasp, hands that hold it hard enough that it crumbles between your fingers and he says to me again, there is nothing. A shrug. The sky is blue. The tree remains ever changing and I miss that moment, the perfume of life living, and in battles I spent too much time. In the privilege of drive and gods, I am sucked dry, weaned,
    like bare trees against the morning chill.

    But, I digress.
    I remember hiking with them and seeing the bare trees.
    A winter-fall like this one and wondering on branches, a few meters away,
    arteries and veins to my breathing sky, breathing with me and sighing out in the patter of my steps,
    the soft dab and crunch,
    and here I belong.

    Here, he speaks, the trees tell me it's OK,
    you can,
    you can
    and we will bleed sky blue, the colour of your windbreaker,
    and you walk,
    walk some more, to the chanting of him, a moment of prayer, a moment of thick desire, achingly so to be whole, to utter raspy and say,
    "I am you",
    have some tea in the wooden, arboreal, pungent, pure floor.

    I miss him, my teacher.
    He would know what to say, laugh, hit his stick, do his shtick, and chase mountain dogs to cheer me,
    blubber something entirely lame and annoyingly so,
    and I wish for his strength, afraid to be tempered by his trails,
    I am afraid and I wonder, why and I wonder why, again and so exhaustingly again,

    I tell him, I like, no,
    I love the mountains,
    present you a gingko leaf,
    smoothe his milky hair,
    and walk.

    I hear next to me,
    the voices I forgot, forgotten, in the same room,
    side-by-side, soft wailing and I know,
    I look aside, the wails are adamant,
    and I sink deeper,
    I, too young,
    I, too weak,
    in the patters of thoughts,
    the excuses pile up,
    words take no meaning,
    and she wails, wails to my depths, and
    I am sick.
    Sickened by the sentiments,
    too saccharine,
    too deprived,
    cognizant that I can't connect,
    I don't want to. My mind refuses to unclench,
    and tightly knotted,
    I sit to relax.

    Recognizant that I am,
    I, embroiled,
    in the strings attached to me,
    I, shirk his gaze,
    flee to the space of my domain, so frail
    but still a space, easily bombarded by echoes of violence,
    I, am too tired,
    to be angry,
    too morose to stay constant,
    I babble on this paper,
    skins of forests, blabber still,
    spit on dry land, and she says it burns,
    as she ran away from her father,
    the one,
    and only one she had tried,
    tried to love freely,
    only her and only him,
    gifts of kindness after decades of pain,
    and no one answers me, to the sorrow,
    "It's just sad, sadness," he speaks,
    caught by time, he retches his words,
    he screams,

    Death take me, pain hinders me,
    I wait when my heart stops,
    or I cannot swallow as I breathe,
    but then I am gone, in less than 10 minutes,
    It was a life, both good and bad,
    but made unbearably worse,
    by an estranged son.
    My blood, My history.
    I cannot walk with him.
    I hear more wails, and I can't sleep.

    "You always write of pain."
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