It Comes Full Circle

Laying in bed, 

Its pitch black out, 

Maybe 4am. 

I don’t have my glasses on, so I can’t see much. 

Shapes of what things should be.

Pin dots,

Growing larger and smaller.

Continuous.

The lamp on the left is off. 

I feel it, 

Looming pain. 

Thinking about growing up.  

My mother’s face comes into view,

Growing older, 

Slide by slide

As we all are. 

Let’s forget that for now. 

It’ll never end if i let it. 

This rewinding of time, 

Like an old black and white film. 

It’s some sort of perverse comfort.

Agonizing, yet cozy.

It’s mine. 

Right? 

Marionette,

My hands start to twirl upwards from my chest, 

Slowly, 

Gently like a blade of spring grass,

leaning on the wind.

Turning the wrist, 

Fingers spayed out, 

Rolling up, 

I get to the top,

Index fingers touch,  

Swirling back down, 

and up again.

Lazily,

As if in a trance. 

All I hear is breathing, 

Rhythm, 

The only constant right now. 

A bit disturbed, 

Too tired, 

Yet, to alive to care. 

2 hours pass, 

What was it about growing again?  

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