I feel like im running out of descriptive dialogue with myself. Its okay, theres not really a need for it. Just the radiation outside is buzzing. It's the good kind, the life kind thats startling to the touch and ear. A woman at the checkout counter smiled her teeth at me and asked if I was in the program. I said eight long months and whats so long about it. Time has slowed, rendered memory supreme. Death is one molasses memory dripping upward it feels sublime. I felt guilty walking out the store as if I had blasphemed in front of a stranger and whats worse was that it was for no good reason but to make conversation. The sorta way we make history out the mundane details of weather. "Eight months. Feels like a long time" drawling on the last half with emphasis, pursing in fake anguish. It hasn't been long. Eight months short hasn't been enough time.

Easter Everywhere

I sniff a spring in the air. It's been such a long long while. First came the bud-heavy dogwoods, exhausting the atmosphere with the scent of warmth. At least thats what I smells like to me. The smell of a giant placid white cushion butressing summer and the descent of fall. Lately though its been the foreign cherries and the texas quince catching the twinkle in my eye. They werent dead never dead they were always here, the secret to life is patience; waiting as an art. Can you wait fully? Can I wait fully I meant to say. And I am learning. I forgot that underneath the dull sheath of bark and antique rotting leaves are the future memories of spring. Even in the stark state of winter it's there. I forget like falling asleep. I forget my heart is brimming there too. Underneath. And blooming too with blood as rich as apples skin and just as red.