It’s all good,
because I have learned to live with a bed of knives,
that I fall onto,
when you conclude that my time in the clouds is done.
I’ve started to say,
every time you say nothing at all,
that I’m just going through phases,
on the road to being okay,
with whatever happens.
Swinging in the park,
grass swaying in the distance,
as the sirens of my latest home ring out,
because I am not content,
until I am toiling and troubled,
I return to the same places,
avoiding how my face glows,
when I think of you.