the difference between a fjord and a bay is the way the tongue folds itself into the cleft between shadow and light

this version of
peace
is so foreign
to me.
i still interpret
it as
“loneliness”.

i was hurt
when i learned
the woman
who agreed with me,
“yes,
i don’t want
kids now,
either”, was
pregnant.
a shift this sudden
less about,
“change”, and
more about
what we allow
ourselves to
believe.

and this
peace
is so foreign
to me
that i still
interpret my
feeling as
“hurt”.

it is not.

i rode my bicycle
moderately
into the scarified dazzle
of a glacial fjord,
thinking
of value.
all around me,
trees
and bushes.
berries ripening
by the second.
oxygen singing
from leaves.
greedily i take it
in. my mind,
trailing a little
above and behind
my body,
on a tether
made of twine,
my mind thought
about value,
as my lungs were
drenched with life.

bending legs propel
this bicycle around
the bending road,
i am plunged
into shadow;
here, back here
i am still
a teenager. i am
still back here
with a friend
or few
and our isolation.
back here
i built roads from these
shadows
that i am still
today upon.
roads
that wander incessantly
through peace, but
tell me, “this is
suffering”.

this peace
is so foreign
to me.
this shadow feels
so welcome
to my reddened skin.
my mind, pulling
at its tether,
still asks of me,
“what do you
have
of value?”
all around me,
peace,
in no hurry
for me
to catch up.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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