49




Surely
we have created everything with fate.


On days like these,
it all falls together so effortlessly.
Days, they fall suddenly
like a grandfather's 81st birthday,
like melted cupcakes and
broken down vehicles and
sudden sex on dirty sheets,
like a whistle stop red wine and
a small puppy's subtle cry or
a 49.49 in an herb shop,
the cardinal number squared
or something with the kind of meaning
that cannot quite be grasped.

Surely there is more to this
than
a simple definition.

A small sign breathes into me,
life
a quiet and odd reminder
after months of (an endless sort of) aching
and
an unquenchable emptiness
meant to gather speed
only slows
as
I regain control.

and now
I see (clearly)

There are cycles gripping every inch
of this place.
One need not be well-versed in
the language of the divine,
a simple 49
can transform reverie into an eerie sensation
of infinite connection.

We all long to thrive
The sensation of
withering,
it gnaws our wretched bones
and we wind up
unconsciously feeding
from one another's energy,
not understanding why
sometimes
we feel so empty
so drained,
stagnant.