sometimes it seems backwards

like abstract art

i love with my hands and 

touch with my heart

with my mouth ajar

i cannot speak

all the things i should probably keep

locked between crossed fingers

but like morning fog

these thoughts still linger.

where do i go 

when i cannot see

the road from the rubble and

the birds from the bees

where have i been 

when i cannot remember

the fire in my eyes 

the crackle of the ember

before it was all ashes.

my fallen har

in a sparrows nest,

places on maps 

in the core of my chest,

the way i can feel things

they way everything seems

the way that the ocean

always seems to have a gleam

reminds me that normality

isn't worth the pain

when empty spaces

have so much to gain.