Promises, Promises

I’ve missed writing. It feels like there’s a hole, when I’m not stringing beads on a thread each week, like I’m burying observations down deep, drowning them like kittens. It may be a a tiny outlet to write here, but it’s still an outlet. They’re still words. They’re still mine. Or maybe they’re not: little birds seeking the sky, and I’ve let the latch go rusty on their cage.