Sometimes, I pick up your papers,
hoping to hear your voice in the words.
Your laugh. Your cynical, dark humor haunts me
in the best possible way.
This morning
I’ve watched the sky shift from an inky black
the color I imagine an octopus
jets behind them when they want to disappear
under cover of the dark
I made my way down the steep, squeaking stairs
lit the stove and warmed myself by the fire.
Now that you are dead
I am trying desperately to learn
how to live.
To take these remaining years
and lean into what I am meant to
and want to be,
Is it
Fortune, Fate
Fact or Fiction
that determine our path?
Those moments that feel Manifested
is that just some bullshit form of serendipity?
A New Age Promise
or is there Truth
within the Magic
