my heart remains unsatisfied with this
pedantic, semantic modernity.
1) my intricate arteries do not comprehend the desire for a drape of electrical wires.
2) these muffled heartbeats are not used to the chaotic traffic and the thumping
footsteps and the relentless drilling machines and the notifications of the portable
device.
3) the joints in my fingers still creek when they hit the keys of my keyboard, still
drenched in the blood of my quills.

it is only in between those moments when
the material plane goes dark,
do i feel the roots beneath my feet
disseminating down below.
1) when we are forced to breathe in light in the candles collecting dust at the back of
forgotten shelves, and their sandalwood scent spreads throughout the four walls of
our wallpapered house;
2) when the realm goes quiet for the beetles to click and the leaves to fly;
3) when my mother shouts, “where are the matchsticks?”

do i feel like my eyes have opened,
like this old soul has come out of a long sleep.

only in that moment between
what is now and what was
do i feel like i truly belong.