Storytelling

Half of your stories are unfinished or yet-to-be-determined

like that last one about the oldest longest-running friend.

You get distracted by the seed of something, its potential

to get grown, you get stuck on loss and longing, you hit

"publish post" faster than you should. Still, you were not

trying to make a metaphor of your lost friend, but you

have to admit that's the way it turned out, that if

someone read it that way and thought the story was really

just a metaphor about his experiences, perhaps even

his experiences with you, he wouldn't necessarily be wrong.

Small circles. These rings need stretching. You keep thinking

the word "new" only words fall short. Suddenly pigeons

are in symphonic coo, the heat's hissing is made into song

because heat must pass through such a small valve.

I want to tell you that most of the stories we tell are stories

we tell ourselves. Good or bad. Helpful or hurtful. You must

remember your mother differently, perhaps not even

as she was. You must be okay with reheating dinner.

We keep walking through our lives. On and on

we walk.