the year of the beginning again, of how many times can somebody shed his skin before finding himself free of scars, of showing up with shaking hands, of repurposing the love flowing out of cracks in my sternum, of working to rip the stitches loose. the year of the purposing, of running before i’m ready, maybe, of the hard-won wisdom that feeling ready is a poor measure of being ready, of refusing to pay mind to a ticking clock working to pick seconds from our pockets. the year of unlearning to second-guess my softness, why was it so easy to do the opposite, of sharing the art of making tapestries from our frayed and hanging threads. the year of the here, now, on the eve of everything, of erring on the side of love, on the side of courage, of leaving no ‘i love you’ left unspoken. the year of making a mark by preparing the hands that will remain, of taking jewels mined from my deepest cuts and letting them loose with reckless goodwill.
michael king 