Andi Leigh Writes

I may remain broken; filling in the Cracks whenever I can. I'll move on and notice the absurdity In the pebbles sleeping on the tile And in the short-lived words of temporary Acquaintances. There are secrets in a glass of water On the counter. There is much more in an odd sprout Growing where others deem impossible. I'll pick up my fragments and continue To look and try to simply understand.

It was unusually lovely outside. The sun crisped the air and the sky Was bright—much different From the ominous fog we've been Lost in for a couple of days now. We got lunch and ate in the car With the fan on, we made smoothies At home with our apartment door Open to cycle in the fresh air. Our cats enjoyed their time looking Out the window of the screen door. I wonder if they saw some birds. There may have been a few.

I've noticed the smile lines on my face. At least I know that I've smiled And laughed many times. Hopefully More times than I have cried. I think that's all that matters. There's a lot more smiling to be done.

There has not been Enough silence. So I'll simply climb Into a bubble To make the time Move—please, move! I'll wait for the creaks And bumps and Intrusions to take the hint. I'd rather deal With my own noise.

My head feels like a cup right now— A cup tipped over with its contents Spilled out wherever it may have landed. I don't know where that cup is And I'm not too sure what spilled, But I see the puddle spreading And I want to mop up what was lost And bring the cup upright With whatever I'm able to save.

Hello.  It's almost the end. I've ended up Where I began and I think That's okay— I don't know if I'll stay. Maybe. I guess we'll see. And there's no shame In ending up where you Used to be. Maybe I'll read this Years from now—in a totally New place And laugh when I think Of all the worrying That flooded So much space.

We live in lights like no other. We write to trances and mold Our breaths to the wells Within us. Our bones break during the Dances we rush through But they heal when our shoes Are set aside.

I am destined to change my mind. I am doomed to catch colds And waste so much precious time. I am prone to be a dreamer And get angry when it's just a dream. How can anyone be content with A cookie-cutter reality? There's plenty of time to take chances; You don't know if you don't try. I'd rather waste time trying than Be content with wonder passing by. So I'm okay if I keep failing, at least I bounced ideas off the wall. Those ideas will crack the bricks And make the blockade fall.

I woke up on the couch, remembering That our cats wanted me in the living room. Of course, they had to tell me at 4 a.m. by Scratching the closed bedroom door— They wanted breakfast. I wanted a full night's sleep but breakfast Could not wait another moment and I also Knew that if I went back to bed— After filling their bowls— They would scratch at the door Because they despise separation. So, I made a nest on the couch and fell asleep While listening to them get the zoomies. Eventually, they fell asleep too And you remained in our bed behind a Closed door—mostly undisturbed.

There were blackbirds Conversing in the middle Of the road, Looking like an excited oil spill As their feathers collected The winter sun. They hopped And picked at the road salt— Those pieces weren't crumbs. I hoped the birds knew.

Tonight The magick will water Dark days, Allowing them to begin To bloom Into golden blossoms That will lead us Into the generous unknown.

I can't stand from a deep sleep. I can't sing to a blank song. I can't fathom the winterization Of a body that won't stay warm. All I feel is a gut-flopped dizziness Due to waking so confused. I can't process information when My own balance feels like news.

The shower washed away The sweat and strain After I had my arms elbow-deep In dirty dishes that made The sink disappear. You had cut the work in half and It was my turn to tackle the chore. This year was a hard one And it's funny That now that it's almost over, It seems like our torments That kept us from getting things Like dishes done for weeks at a time, Are ending as well. Thankfully, The dishes are finally placed On the drying rack And the leftover pieces of what Plagued us this coarse year May have been swallowed Down the drain with the grime.

We're living a dream; Thrifting books and sipping On drive-thru coffee. It feels like spring— We don't get many slow Days like these, ones Where we are in no rush, And a quick trip to the store Gives us no grief. Our fog is clearing and I Hope we see That we deserve more Lively times to live slow And just be.

There is legitimacy In our stolen time. We give our days to love, To wake up every morning With resistance to the Imminent despair that aims To leech off of our creativity. I see the love for freedom And the longing for taking Back what is ours—forever. Even after we are long gone, The mess we leave behind May be worth displaying.

We did our best— We hurdled over obstacles And made some progress. We'd been sleeping In our depression But we've used time to reset. Now we can plan ahead, Knowing what we need next.

There is no sense In taking a serious day. Things are hard enough As it is. I have tunnel vision And every red light takes Too long. Let time move slowly So I can listen to an Audiobook. Let it snow enough To block us in. It'll give me an excuse To take it easy.

There's frost resting on the window And thankfully I've been sleeping in So I miss the daunting task Of scraping my car's windshield Before having to leave my home To get to where I may have to go. The thoughtful sun clears the ice for me And the lack of snow reminds me that It doesn't feel like the holidays— I haven't felt the seasonal magic in Many years, so I guess it doesn't Matter—as long as my windshield is clear, And I don't care if my apartment window Is decorated with the frost from the Chilling December night. As long as I don't have to decorate, I'm fine with whatever.

There is no drop of sun Under a dark moon And cutting through The lily pads of the pool Will only make you sink, Tangling you to the falsity Of the water's surface That only shows the truth In the thrashing you think Will save you.

It's three in the afternoon And I want nothing more Than to sleep so soundly On a couch in the darkest room. But the day—it keeps on calling— And I have to answer soon, Since if I don't, I'll be quite stuck On a couch in the darkest room.

I had a weird dream, But as soon as I woke up, All the details were lost. I only remember The weirdness And I'm still so tired.

Sometimes The moon smiles And the night howls In her glow. The fireflies see Her joy And they praise her For her forgiveness. We stand Under her like tides But some refuse Her gifts And they break Like waves on rocks. The moon smiles Even for the undeserving.

I have the moon in a glass. It's sweet, like lavender liqueur, Inspired, like the phases traveled. I pray my spirit can be bottled And that I too will be the same.

I have a coin in my pocket But there's nothing to buy. There's nothing I would seem To want to try—nothing has Reached out and caught my eye. The unspendable coin, while Pretty, is an ornamental lie.

Let's turn in for the night And disappear into a sphere— One of our own design, Where we can be weird and Talk about our work encounters With regular strangers. We'll laugh and no one will Hear—they're not allowed in. It is our night and our own Sphere of unwinding.

The shifty ice Whispered to the ground About a prank it wanted to pull On those with ill-prepared shoes. The ice knew that it would Laugh and laugh But the humorless ground Was tired of breaking falls.

On Thursday, The world turns. It doesn't matter if you skip breakfast, Or suffer a broken heart. It doesn't matter if you drown In hellbent tasks, Or listen to a crowd sing Happy Birthday. On Thursday, It's like any other day. Whether you are a speck Or possibly the temporary center. You are you, And Thursday is another Thursday.

My nose runs And I can't keep up. The echinacea screams for me Since mucus keeps my Voice busy—it's all just grunts That won't clear a path. My lifeline is a couch that Hurts my back. Work still calls—I picked up An extra shift.

Late nights Are never a waste When the glow Wants to be followed. You need to want To follow it too And make sure your Eyes stay open For a tad while longer.

I leave handwritten poems On the shelf Until I'm ready to explore The handwriting. Sometimes, My penmanship Is steady—neat and Printed small, no smudges To speak of. Sometimes, The lines are traced Over and over again until The words are too bold For the thin page. Sometimes, I have to stare and really Think about what I've written— Since my scribbles seem To have poured onto the paper With a will of their own. Even so, With the endless outcomes, I'll check up on them From time to time; Seeing which pieces I want To last forever. And most do— In one way or another.

I'll click a pen Over and over, Frantic— Waiting for the sound To change. I know it never will. I could just put An end to it— The frantic clicking— But then there would be Silence And right now I don't want that either.