perched

precariously
on the edge of
what they're telling me is real
working through pages
passing through phases
grace is not mine, not now
but soon
once i fall back into what
i know
is real, back through
photographs and my dusty roads
right now i'm learning
nothing i can do anything with
i want to make things
i want to run, fly, cry
feel welcomed into arms
less weary than my own

(i will miss you
but we'll both be better
when we're both gone)