this is a death.
this the sound of a Boeing 747 knocking on your frontal cortex.
this is a purging of two-thousand and eighteen years of stop, of start over, let go, go home, be kind, deliver us from evil, love thy neighbor, tip your waiter, right side of the road, left side strong side.
this is a painter taking white #FFFFFF over everything except of course for
this is my open palm telling you it’s okay.
you are okay.
you made a mess of yourself.
dirty laundry hanging from the dull blades of your ceiling fan.
dust lining the windows of your room.
press gently in reverse into the footprints you’ve left in the snow.
don’t give up.
suck in the sun, the sky, the dilapidated cars chugging down nowhere road so quick
and blow it out into a new balloon.
slipknot the string around your open facing wrist
and push off of the ground
into the sky which no one has actually been able yet
Photo: Laurn Carrasco Morón