the den

i sit with the softest anger and
the most serene sadness i’ve ever felt.
a fire in a gentle storm;
the wind blows me back and forth
and inside out.
but i am patient in my breathing
and the skies are almost clear.

meanwhile,
drizzle washes away the words
i didn’t get to say aloud and
the voice i learned to hold, burns within.

i can’t tell which is more soothing;
your piano playing or the hemp oil.

a beautiful dog covers my leg,
her eyes beg mine for more affection.
i caress her as she questions where her family went.
i wish she could understand
when i tell her they’ll be back soon.
you question the same as she does.
i wish i could tell you they were there all along.

nonetheless, you keep playing.
the lump in my throat begs to listen.
the tears i so often swallow
roll over me as the whiskey settles.

i told you that one of the most beautiful
moments of my life is happening.
you’re sad about it in a different way but
you look back at me with empathy.
i smile, in love with what’s been,
as i begin to enjoy all that’s to come.

you keep playing.

my eyes shift and look for what to paint next.
suddenly,
i grow into a fearless forest fire;
my branches grab what they can
and my leaves become ashes spread
over the pedals.

here, there’s destruction.

the door waits for me to walk through it
and the wood is darkest on the piano.
the room glows and hums with holy suffering.

here, there’s also creation.

so forget the boxes stacked and filled with moldy memories and voids.
the exterior is cold and we don’t know where anything is, but we’ll find it;
together, in our own moments,
in different rooms, at the same time;

don’t stop playing,
i’ll start painting.