My resting heart rate is 51, which
means my heart moves slower than
the second hand ticking against
a concrete wall, and maybe this
is why time seems to heal me
slower, always catching my
breath as I catch up to the page
Those sunflowers die in a vase on
the counter, yellow petals cast
as yesterday’s hopes, because
giving flowers is an act of
surrender – to the idea that
nothing lasts, to the choice to
be right here now
I pride myself on how smoothly
I can pack up a life, T-shirts
rolled in suitcases, the hotel room
already forgetting my warmth,
and I do get tired of going, I
do yearn to find home outside
the confines of my body, but
I am, in fact, home here, and
wherever I wander, home.
michael king 