Anything, ever.

Sometimes I sit and I think about
crows.

I daydream and dawdle.
I daydream, I find myself
crying a little;

looking at all of the things
all the bottles
I’ve placed on the floor.

Colours in picture frames, dust on the tiniest
memories.

How will I ever be anything
other than
that which I am
at this
instant.

This moment,

this instant.

(when I write things I tend to think of the rhythm of the words as they’re spoken.  It’s hard to capture small feelings of happiness with covered insecurities and deep melancholy and a little bit of fear, so I focus on rhythm.)