It’s funny

Isn’t it

The cusp of change

You can feel it

Smell it, even

But can you speak on it

Until it happens?

I suppose I am

But most ignorantly

Because what do I know of this change

This one upon me like mitosis

Unseen, unfelt, but most important

I feel the change like truth

Like tears of anger

Like the denial of base emotions

Like jealousy

Or love,

When it shouldn’t be

I feel the change like rain

On a sunny day

Like a breeze in zero atmosphere

Which is creating a disjointed picture

I realize

But this disjointed mess

Maybe that’s the change?

Or no

Maybe that’s the past

My disjointed mess

I’m on the verge

Of leaving it behind

Will I have

Anything to write about

After?