In the small parcel of your
tongue I found a greeting
card with no addressee
to be found. We’ve always
had a weak spot like that,
always wanting to bring
home the strays from the
pound, always wanting to
let in more than we can
let ourselves. I am dutiful
so I sought to deliver it
to whoever may have been
the proper recipient.
In my hands, your
hand, a map of veins,
guiding me into this city
I have made myself
forget. Up and down the
busy rain-trodden alleys
past rows of shops full of
glass and sharp where
did we mean to find
ourselves? Somewhere
between the front and
back of a yellow pages,
somewhere beneath a
boot. I turn around and
you have disappeared,
leaving only the warmth
of your hand behind.
I recall the sensation
of what it had been like
to have felt like Icarus
right next to the sun
as though I could not fall
and this thought drove
me, sent my feet into
wonder, a mechanical
order; I am marching
now, I am running now,
in my head I see the door
out of an airplane opening
into a field of poppies, I see
a warm fire in the middle
of a witch hunt, I’m seeing
that place I was meant to
bring this remnant of you to
as though a burial, as though
a refund, as though I were
going home; with fear
sitting with me in place
of you I am knocking
on that big red door with its
brass, foreboding doorknob.
First, silence. Then, two steps.
The door swings slightly open.
A hand reaches out. It’s yours.
And now everything is lost.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.