Tangible Threads of Life

... The threads that hang from my scarves, the threads that I rip from the hem of my skirt, the thread that holds my fingers in place to type on my keyboard, the thread that runs the length of my body to my feet that holds my heart, the thread I need to yank on each time I need to pick my heart up off the ground again, yes, threads, my threads of life. The long thread that attaches me to someone else, somewhere else, some time and place I have yet to be. The threads that run through my soul, wrapping around my thin waist, tiding up the loose ends of things complicated. 

It is these threads I speak of as I grab for my journal book, letting my mind unravels a thousand thoughts. I think on paper, the place I sort out my life. The place I connect all those tiny prism dots, the place with many beginnings, and few endings, the place that often allows me not to speak in tongue at all. 

Wanting very much for the raindrops pelting the window to say something, speak to me in some brilliant philosophical language. Yates or Poe would have had the brilliance to shape the drops into poetic tongue, as I only have the brilliance to watch them drip, emotion by emotion, down my window pane, as I reach to feel the pure wetness of the individual tears.

give me music in places I no longer find air.

Teach me to breath !