As my language becomes mired in loss, trading in expulsions of it starts to feel cheap.
Everything I write, sing, or say is cheapening myself to give you something. Saying there’s a way to get to ourselves, when there isn’t. I don’t know you. There is no way from me to me just like there is no way to you, collapsing somewhere in a sea of lost objects with your erased face like the backs of people’s hands.
Given how what's underlying is so often elusive / slips so easily, the false sense of permanence surrounding words starts to strike me. When my father, who continues to lose his father, can no longer remember details, my grandfather will become fleeted. And so my father starts to adorn his father’s garb, because some losses are forever and these are / were supposed to be the most important things.
A misplaced person, I often can’t remember anyone, home, or myself. I don’t know what will stick from what I saw / what I see now but I know that a first step is landing.