Sit with me for a moment.
This is not about me but the strangers that are laced with stories.
Built on shaky breathes, racing spirits.
That have left me with remnants of their past, scratching words that disturb.
This woman talking to me is a poem already.
She is dark and naked with fear.
In her eyes are wide tracks that swallows me whole
That is not patient with my nods, sober stares.
Her eyes hover around delicately, searching for approval.
But the questions in my mouth have collapsed.
I start “MA, your son cut himself, again?”
She stares and nods like an afterthought.
My emotions are sitting with me, fierce with the need to scream.
To bare a magic wand.
Her voice “He is 10 and is lost in movies”
Her sigh is bubble of sadness.
Today, I’ve been stripped of my gay afternoons to float on the old silence the earth offers.
Time dissolves to reveal her splitting anger.
“are you still writing?”
Her voice is the faint signature of history, struggles of being a stranger in your home.
I am dumb with strings of wise sayings and lessons.
“I am planting my words on the notes that I will pray over at noon”
Before my eyes, she fades into blurred lines. Light fires, haunting echoes.
I am dreaming again.
This atlas, we stand.
This atlas of a difficult world.