we spread a blanket spread
ourselves almost pulseless
in pacific deception
I've got word envy. Or poem envy. Or something like a revved-up appreciation for another's work.
Does this happen to you? You read a line, a passage, a chapter, and you are moved, but it comes with a twinge of wish. As in, I wish I'd written that.
These twinges, this envy, at first feels petty but is really instruction in disguise. This yearning awakens, and then asks why? And the why leads and encourages us to find our own version, our own voice, our own way.
What's leading you?