It's warmer there. I've always preferred the Fremont air. The wind wraps its arms around you, like roots in the soil. Strong but gentle, like memories that cease to spoil. My old necklace is in the lake. The second I threw it I knew I made a mistake. It represented the year I wanted to disappear, but I wish that damn silver was still here. But there's nowhere I'd rather it be. That lake is the closest thing to me. They have a bench in the woods, we carved initials in it with a stone. For sisterhood, or so we all supposed. Though we split apart in mid-July, I know the fault is either hers or mine. Though I don't know who I blame anymore, though interrogations led to complications and days so poor. 9, then 7, then 6, then 5, then 4. Circumstance. Though I guess I credit myself some more. The birds are never quiet at sunrise. They fly when pink and orange paint the sky. One tree they've never seen, how it makes me want to cry. To be so in love with a place and its people, for on the peninsula all are equal. It's gone for now, with signatures on a shelf. I miss that place, I miss myself.
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Quiver
Poetrya place where I've written my feelings when I felt them. it has become a story of depression and recovery, love and loss, hope and fear, and everything in-between. mostly poetry, sometimes stories. :)
