I wanted to take a minute to write a small poem between parts.

Not every day feels like a story
Some days feel like a wool dress I wanted to like,
because it has a hood,
and pockets,
But it just isn’t me.
And neither of us is wrong,
we’re just not right for each other
regardless of how good we might look on paper.

It has pockets and a hood.
I love pockets and a hood.
I have a frame for it to drape itself upon.
It loves a frame to drape itself upon.

Some days the parts do not equal a sum which suits.
Did I really think that if it sits in the closet unworn for 8 months something will change?

Not every day feels like poetry
some days have little to do with rhyme
or reason
or anything resembling balanced meter
or resonant tone
or sense.

I’ve been shuttered by my own thoughts since that time of day which feels pre-morning.
The sun wants in,
though temptation is to stay dark today
and grieve the dresses I’ll love but never wear
because I lack the courage to truly not care.

Or perhaps it’s more that I lack the courage to let go,
dwelling in a strange selfishness
a bitter envy that if I give it away,
it will suit someone the way it never suited me.
As though there was something I lacked.

In the wee dark hours before the dawn,
I peered at a book by light too dim to see by.
My room has an overhead light,
I have the resources available
But I lack the courage to acknowledge that my aesthetic
is shifting
to one which requires brighter lights
or glasses
Or both
And that it’s okay to age out of a dress
a belief system
A perception that the way I look,
is more important
than seeing things clearly.

Photo by Bud Helisson on Unsplash