Andi Leigh Writes

I want to wash my salted wounds And never see the blood again. Though I know my signature Will run down my burdened arms, Pushing my mistakes forward— It is an accustomed affliction That I must learn to bandage.

We had vanilla cookies with lemon cream And your eyes lit up with a quick flicker— Mine did as well. The tart sweetness delivered me back to simpler times— Way back when things like paper and coin Didn't have such a hold on our well-being. I wondered if the flavors reminded you Of anything at all—I should've asked. We savored the uncomplicated moment Of having something good in the palms Of our hands. It was dearly nostalgic And delightful—this shared experience.

There is Rapid crime Taking place Behind our eyes— Through our tears Where no one sees And healing must be An inevitability.

There was a time Where we were hidden Like mushrooms Under maple leaves— Afraid of devourers, Fearful of the open sky, But we continued To spread ourselves Across the underground, And we found comfort Where others hadn't.

Don't fret over broken glass. The shards will tumble Into the sea—they always find their way. And when they are smooth and ready, They'll reappear— Becoming a pocketable keepsake From the crafty waves And the hands that broke the glass.

We clap for each other When no one else will hear. It's how we let Each other know That no matter the crowd, We can press on And on and on. There will be at least one Celebrating.

We had A lazy day And marinated In The good things. Can you Taste What simmers In pots That we stir? We Tend to Sprinkle in A little more Soul Than needed.