The Art of Holding On

You exist in my memory as a
Foggy day, where the trees aren’t really
Visible, but you look at them anyway, because
You know they’re there, and as a
Pixelated, grainy picture, straight out of an old
Movie poster, one of those films about
Goodness and love, and you exist as a
Distant train, creating tracks all around my
Consciousness, and as a room of
Smoke, full of unreliable events and
Confused forgiveness.

Muses

When I asked you if you were
Sad, you told me that the light had
Left you. When I asked you why you
Cried, you said that it was because you
Were his muse, and he left you, that
You were his guardian and he ran away, that
You weren’t wrong, and that you didn’t
Know how to
Make things right.
When I asked you if you were
Sad, you told me that the doors had
Closed.

But what
You didn’t realise was that you were
Breathing. That the air that entered you
Reminded you to synchronise with
Nature, that your skin and bones were
Nothing but skin and bones, that
Muses and guardians and angels don’t
Dwell under your nerves, and that
Your body is not made entirely of
Metaphors.