I host a small writers group once a month at our local library. My heart races before every meeting. We’ve had three so far and each time I’m terrified that no one will show up. But then people do. And they don’t just show up, they bring their amazing energy and beautiful words and I am always so thankful for all the inspiration I get from the meetings. I attend another, larger meeting in Portland, which is incredible for different reasons, but I really look forward to our cozy little library meetings. I came up with a piece of prose during our prompt writing session, but when I got home I tweaked it into a poem. I like it this way better; it feels a bit less cliche than the original prose. -h
it felt like flying when
she put her hand over her mouth and nodded,
He remembers her laugh most of all
because its absence is so much louder.
This is normal,
he tells himself.
Everyone feels this way.
But he knows that’s not true and he knows they won’t just get over it and move on and that this is the end.
And that’s what’s the hardest to face.
It feels to him like engine failure at 30,000 feet.
It feels like losing control of the wheel just as the plane is about to land.
It feels worse to know what’s coming than to be caught unaware.
He’s aware it’s futile but even still,
he clings to the life-vest lying sad and deflated around his neck,
knowing all the while he’s headed for land.