13. reformation
November finds me pacing up and down the well-worn wood trail, frost crunching beneath my boots. Reach inside my coat, but instinctively retreat when I touch warm wetness. Nothing, it’s nothing. The crisp aroma of pine and earth burns my nostrils, burns. There’s also the faint scent of rust; that can’t be, I’m alone but for the trees and my heartbeat. God, I need some whiskey. Crack, and I fall over, splayed across strewn leaves. Dimly registering the pain that leaves an ache in my teeth, black spots under my eyelids. The sunlight is blinding, takes my breath away completely: I see whales. Blue whales, idly gliding in the sky, like misplaced champions of the heavens. Twisting and turning in a slow graceful dance with the clouds, the brilliance of a dying sun bleeding into their skin, iridescent. Into those mournful, wise eyes I look and I am drawn into an old tale, a magnificent song that reverberates in my soul and lingers on my tongue. I can feel tears on my cheeks, overwhelming emotion blossoming blooming and consuming me. They turn round and make their ascent; this time, I follow.
🐝 - Typewriter poem from J1 ft. I was too lazy to reformat it as a poem here so now it's a block of text and tbh that works.