I am from the itchy soil,

from the scratches on vinyl,

I am from the fresh cold that smothers

the TV tones.

(luminescent, flickering,

always a pitch too loud.)

I am from the end of solitude, 

the echoes of friends from steep,

fluffy snow-capped hills, 

the biting cold warmed by easy touches

and no words needed. 

The murmuring in my ears hushed, 

Comfortable. 

I am from cynicism,

the too tight skin of 

who I succeed.

Picking at scabs,

Peeling and scratching at

the expectations that can be fought at tirelessly,

yet remain.

I am from the steeping of tea,

the anger brewing in my airways,

that is so ever-present nowadays.

Lurking under the surface,

boiling hot,

fogging my brain. 

From the rattling lungs,

and the feeling of skipping a step. 

I am from wiping melted hands on my gritty jeans, 

feeling the fibers light up my palms, 

feeling the friction. 

I am from the knowing, 

the kid in me that knows that no matter how many times I ask for anything

the resignation is always so much worse

then a no. 

I don’t know if it’s the leaves turning an auburn hue, 

and the air crisper,

but I always yearn for a time that doesn’t exist now.

I want to be from purple coats,

old bulky camera lenses winking at me,

as I hold pumpkins in my hands, 

fragile in my small grasp. 

Young and naive, 

fragile in a way I’m not now,

but consistently happy.

So now at the anticipated lull in the cycle

I am from the desire to sleep.

And only with the comfort of 

pounding rains, 

monsoons, 

and shooting stars,

as I slumber through the winter. 

The cold ebbs away in a place I have both 

loved and scorned.

The eye of the storm 

with just me thoughtless,

centered. 

Until I open my eyes and the storm is over. 

Beautiful silence in its wake.