Dove

Don't trust a thin pastrymaker drifts past me in the late afternoon silence. Meditations can be so strange when you leave yourself open to the currents of the universe. The woman in the meditation room asks me to imagine dreams of a life and all I see are ink blots, all I see is a life in words, hours and hours of words, again the answer paints itself across my headlights, it's too frustrating to wear yourself thin grating against reality on a daily basis.

I spend a day with the dregs of a week, the last stinging tentacles of disease, we gather around an imaginary dinner table and speak of kisses, the tears are surprising but in the end we are hopeful about swoon. He asks What was the last kiss that felt like home? and I cannot answer it, the words will not come out, I'm keeping this one to myself, you see, I fought too hard for Home, too long, when it shows up in kisses
I keep them to myself. 

We spend an entire life
just trying to get where we're
going.