fire for the fuel

like stones skipping on the water:

so go the days.
habits formed long heretofore,
the nerdiest of traits
the folding of mores
opening of eyes, troubles glaring back.

must be something
to this pattern.
I ate, quenched thirst,
drank in the moments

of figurative fireworks I’ve constantly enjoyed.
I bathed, cleansed pores
opened the closets, sobbed on the daemons.
must be something
to this desire.

all the jigsaw pieces.
every single butterfly, pinned,
wings still fluttering on the cork
all the weights on my shoulders,
eyelids, kneecaps, mouth corners.

I recognize the shores,
swimming alongside so frequently
how could the treeline not rekindle memories?
must be something
to this anchor.

without repetition they do not impress.