There is a restlessness that rests inside of me–
It can’t be moved.
It dances on my diaphragm,
Bouncing on the place where breath is born;
It makes me uneasy.
And yet,
It attracts me as a firefly attracts the eye,
As the wind is attracted to the sail;

What is it that can’t be named?
This emotion, this feeling, this worry, this, this–
That caresses me until it strangles me,
That lovingly grips my neck,
Whispering delight, fascination, doom;

It. Will. Not. Release me.

Until I release it into the digital dimension where words might find expression;
If they find anything at all.

These letters typed again and again,
Express the same longing I feel here and there;
That which rushes in from time to time,
Like the flow of the turning tides.
Though unlike these ocean habits,
It has neither name nor timing,

All I can do is assent to its wishes,
And let it bleed from my fingertips.



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