Butterfly Lo-Fi – Thomas Heath

Love loss, loveless. Here’s what’s wrong with you.
    You’ll take up the mantle for a day
    in a place you move through
    as shades do in night-time blue
    to press futile murk
    approaching openings that blind you.
    Opening your front door seems terrifying,
    even though the person knocking at your door
    is trying to say ‘let me into your life.’
    I can’t stop hearing that crack.

Before you know it, the days will roll by and by
    into day after daytime tv show passing hours
    as much as apple blossom collapsing,
    pink dresses tumbling off cliff-sides,
    before you know it your time is charred out.
    I walk out onto the railing
    and stand high over the neighbourhood
    listening to police sirens
    over the grey and pale blue colours
    I see sapphire fires shooting upwards,
    I hear that song again.

You’ll come to know the Earth will turn in spite of your fears
    and stops only when you feel motionless
    or most afraid.
    I had a reason to get out of bed
    but that’s not all bad.
    These noises you hear outside your door,
    the sweat permeating inwards
    and rotating your absent soul
    when you’re faced with the concept of choice.

I keep doing whatever I’m doing because it means I’m getting closer
    I get to the hospital and they tell me
    to sit down and ask if I’m okay.
    Allow me, allow you, allow this, allow the tide.
    There’s a dripping sound
    and I say I’m fine thank you.
    You worry that one step outdoors might crack the surface
    of your world which is as an ocean,
    fragile over darkness.

I ask another nurse and she tells me to wait so I ask her again
    and she tells me to stop being aggressive
    and I say I’m not being aggressive I just want to know.
    They say they’re doing everything they can
    but I’m wondering how bad the wounds are
    and I’m wondering what ‘everything’ means.

I count the minutes that pass because soon we can be like we were.
    one/
    two/
    three/
    Not all those noises you hear are bad
    not all the people knocking on your door are here to collect bills.
    It all comes down to waking up
    feeling like someone’s poured concrete
    and built a city on your head
    like you’ve been born again
    as if you are now with purpose
    or have something to become.
    It’s about getting ready because the night has ended,
    the streetlights are off and it’s bright outside
    like it always seemed to be in an imagined place
    and you take a breath of the morning and count
    one/
    two/
    three times you do your laces and clear away the plates
    slide out covered in a nice coat and an old bag
    out to have a go at doing something that seems worthwhile.

You can’t sleep, you don’t want to sleep
    like you’re looking for something in the early hours.
    one a.m.
    two a.m.
    three a.m.
    So you open the door to abyssal sunshine,
    take in breath that changes you
    grabs the outside and hauls it into the caverns
    of your chest lifting in rhythm
    one/
    two/
    three/
    Feel change happening
    in worlds that have no grand story or arc
    it just happens

in early morning light
    in purity, light that looks back at you but says
    nothing.

You take a minute because it all seems different,
    whatever it is you were scared of
    /one/
    is either here
    /two/
    or it’s gone.

The swelling network of minds in temporary storage
    of boxed-up hearts in front room windows,
    all the small pebble thoughts in a wide sea
    of the things to love and be loved by,
    they creep up and you realise you’ve been standing
    outside the house for half an hour because it’s beautiful.

The sun dead trees, dripping gutter
    patchwork and orange rays.
    all fuse for you frantically
    to inhale and stand up and sail over
    as happy thoughts tend to do
    and everyone else does the same every morning,
    waiting for the day to start up and over
    because it’s all people like us feel we can do
    to leave the past in its place as you start up and over
    desperately clinging to the start of the day
    ready to soar up and over.

I count those minutes because I know I won’t see it again.
    Not this moment of this sky,
    not this moment of breath
    of change.

I count the seconds it takes to blanket me
    because I don’t know when it’ll happen again.
    I listen to lo-fi air
    in an instrumental morning
    marking the aftermath of puddles,
    a gap in a storm so wide it lasts a lifetime
    and it makes me think that this day of my existence
    could be different from every other.
    So don’t mind me while I count waves of infinite oceans
    bodies of finite things,
    the minutes and the seconds of the sea.

We count the seconds that start our day, the roots leading us to lives
    we wish we could live.
    We do it because when the counting stops,
    for a moment apart,
    we just breathe
    /one/
    /two/
    /three/
    and start again.

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