Remembering First Steps

Remembering first steps
A practice maybe dreaded
The beautiful things that depart
Lay heavily on our hearts

Like grass blades just barely
Sneaking up on flip-flops
That are now higher educated
Reminding us of familiar things

Of, the lamentations
Of familiar things
I love you, good night, I can’t wait
Oh, the lamentations
Of living in a place where
Familiar things have not gone away
But never existed

Long eyelashes – longing for
The air between the gaps of
A familiar hall, house, face
Oh, how they used to be everywhere

But where are they now?
Tucked away in boxes
In our bare pockets
Maybe wishing they could find us

Every shake is now foreign
Where are the quakes of yesterday?
I can detect no similar heartbeat

And yet,
My heartbeat is just a sound
Crying into a motionless
Timeless, loveless
Dark box inside my pocket

Whilst I step
Unreadily, unsteadily
On the dampened grass blades
Of a grateful today

If only to stray away,
To deter, to upset
Those memories that come
Fluttering into mind
And take refuge behind my eyes

5 people I used to know
At a place I used to go
But where are they now?
Wistfully bouncing up and down
On my heart

On MY heart
Maybe wishing they could find me,
Find another insignificant,
Misunderstood glance or stare
To connect our fates once again
And send our heartbeat reeling
A practice maybe dreaded
But rarely neglected

Currently unavailable for purchase



I wrote this when I left home for the second time and moved to California. It mainly about how time is a real bastard. It goes on without our consent.

What really intrigued me about the whole thing was the way I felt the need to leave, to change pace and setting. It’s like, I lost the connections I had with the people around me. They no longer excited me until I was gone and missed familiar interaction. I was shocked, even disturbed by the fact that I really missed people I felt so detached from. I felt as though they were imposing on my heart, though I wasn’t such a big part of their lives. Why my heart?

And even now, as I’m home again, I feel my day-to-day interactions with my close friends and family lack emotion and true feeling.

JC prefers to be referred to as, “The artist formerly known as JC.” She thinks she is Australian but actually isn’t.

She once paid for drugs using a check. It bounced. Javier was not pleased.

View Full Profile

Comments

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait