nothing is ours at all

there’s something in the way we
catch at words,
gently tucking them away
into the softest parts of ourselves.

it’s not The Truth
(that so quickly dissolves into
chaos, obeying entropy
over our ornery need for absolutes)

it’s not Comfort
(a myth that seems to
float
always just
out of reach)

it’s more the clinging, quiet
moment in which each of us discovers
how small we are

or, rather, it’s the thousands
of tiny, breathing moments in which
we remember, all of a sudden,
for a fleeting inhalation,
that nothing is ours at all

or, rather, the visceral
stirrings that belong only to us.

we have taken in more than we can bear.
we have held floods.
we have failed to protect ourselves.
we have asked for too much.

this is not a salve, but rather
a snag in the balance,
when the world can’t help
but stop and listen.