yoga

A yoga flow is the closest to God I’ve felt in years. 

Controlling my breath, stretching joints I didn’t realise I had, until they move and release and I’m lengthened. Head to mat, sinking into the body, to the floor, to nothing. 

Exhale; I top my dying plant up with diet coke. I stare at the wall where I killed a moth, a faint smudge of its presence now a pressed flower. Memories begin to feel like dreams, so distant and far-removed, so unlike myself and filled with people I haven’t known for years. Life repeats in liturgies of empty yogurt tubs, laundry baskets and longing. Each lingers for far too long, like a lukewarm cup left half-finished for company. 

I whisper to myself aloud if I'm likeable. I stare at the moth’s imprint. I eat yogurt and stain my top. 

Inhale; I’ll catch the next moth and set them free, where they can find a sweater to chew in another house.