why I’m here, to peek at the cusp of dreams
I know better than to be up this late, but I promised myself I would write. And it’s just now that I’ve found the space. A room of her own. Trying to become a sharp one-hand typer, I have the corner of a pillow-mounded bed and a baby held to my chest, so little time till my mind dreamjumps into the falling rabbit hole of pocket-watches and potions.
Quickly! Quickly! Say it.
Adding another child makes the world small, shrinking, closed in. The little things in my space can become so large. We consume moments like we own space.
His soft eyes stare through mine like he hooped through galaxies to find and to be found.
And in a flash, the time it takes to type one word with one hand, so long and slow. The enormous keys are hard to find.
With effort, a word can carry such gravity that it breaks breastbones and lets the artist out. The one you knew was in there when you tried to draw Eden but couldn’t.
I want to see you crack. I want to speak blessing over you. I want to watch you paint. Be art and mirror Artist.
This is the entire reason I’m here.