Yellow Life Jacket

I don’t remember how to write, like saying, “I don’t remember how to think.”

And it’s a funny state of mind — the emptiness of nostalgia countered by the weight of its recognition, a bandage that does nothing for the break.

I write, “This summer I am visited by the apparition of my own uselessness; I am consumed by the exorcism of it.”

In the pool beside me, a bee writhes and stings at the water, all its vehemence misdirected, until it succumbs.

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