These are silent times.
He said his day’s been… rough. I know what he means.
It was in the silence, the quiet scorn before punishment that I first heard your voice.
Perhaps it's time to flatten other curves.
I stopped, met my deadline...
Amidst the panic/ the anxiety choked hearts...
What will he say when he remembers this time?
In the midst of chaos, I create.
But 15 months ago I was in crisis.
What a difference a year makes. I can only watch from afar, the devastation greater than I can fathom. Using numbers doesn’t help me understand the magnitude when it’s ten and one hundred times bigger than my closest reference. And even that I cannot comprehend.
Smooth and round the disc fits in my palm, the perfect spot to rub my thumb over. It soothes my tactile self.
I watched her disarm a bomb.
Angry words spoken,
with fingers in personal space.
Days grow darker.
It’s hard to get up.
Start. Fail. Restart, get a little further. Fail.
“I’m a mistaker,” he says, stopping me cold in my steps, all my attention on that small sentence.