I prefer to be out of my mind. Laying here, my head caressing the warm top side of my bed, radiating heat into my cheek, the sounds of cars drifting in the foreground, the smell of my sheet, of my body, the clock ticking, tick, tick, tick. The hum of my computer, gently, my fingers, bouncing around, off and on the keys, my neck twisted, contorted.
There is a stillness in the air. My drunk nostrils whiff it in.
My heavy eyes, the bags, the lids.
And the cramps compress into concatenated pieces of sequenced flesh
There is no rhyme, or mildew.
OR spilt milk. Summer legs.
Doppler ocean, water breathes
crustacean. Bells. Professing their wit. Their hailing white teeth.
Nostrils inhaling the smile, the vapors, alcoholic friends poking their eyes into our conversation.
Collegiate jackets, madness, elbow, pads.
Bleeding noses, and cracks.
His eyes are covered with blankets, with covers, with dark textiles, and curtains, to shield the sunlight, from illuminating his eyes, adding color, dousing senses,
Are you crazy? The toenail nods.
Skin scrapes on the periphery. Knees, gentle knees, never mind the wrists.
Such a fine smile, curls lock, so thin, so frail, so bold, so courageous.
The sickness comes on, and off, and on, and parts of me lose and gain sense of who I am, and was, and there is a murky madness, a mess, that swirls like milk, and colors, and dye,
The cloud hovers, but catches
refracting the light
that never see the night
I love you
Too deep, for light
The dress dances, catches the summer breeze, catches my sapphire eye, oh my.
I love you. Because I see you. And you are mine. In my mind. We are together, dancing, the purity you will never possess. Returns to me every night. We find love in these eyes, in this mind. Thank you, smiling eyes.
I feel. In waves. In colors. In chaos. In madness. In crystallized kaleidoscopes, adorned with trinkets I’ve pocketed along the way, spare things, fallen things, special things, trash. Stuffed them together, like laundry. And laid my head down. Down. Down. Into the white. Into the warmth.
The grace of forgiveness. The heaven of poor memory, of absentminded love, that smothers with its travels, poking about, never home, always close.
Bubbles that boil and froth and cling together, to the sides, to the feeling, to the breath that escapes, and baits a new word, to goad, bated breath.
Here we are, these feelings and I, my feelings, my darlings, my children, birthed from the depths of my struggle, from the furnace of my pain, charred and waiting to be lit again, with every peering eye that probes the depths, they look about, these feelings, they roam, they gather together and giggle and lay their arms around each others necks and lift their eyes together and paint majesty in the heavens, on the ceiling, my eyes, the lids, and my smile cracks, and these feelings fall forward, pour out, for a moment, before the crack recedes, and the feelings lay down, together, and smile themselves
In the night, I live. In the depths of darkness I shine. The internal brimstone chokes the air, creates the flow, ignites the fodder thrown into its churning pools.
When you figure it out, the world is yours. When you realizes that your best friend is yourself, the little joys become predictable and fluid and nothing waits to escape.
Not to focus. Must not focus. The cavern. Predictable.
The legs pick up and toe the earth, moving in shifting patterns, my heart tugs, longs to shift with the patterns, of music, of heart, blue hue, moon shine, diamond of my eye, apple of the sea, floating about, until I find thee.
The lines, the dark, rigid, folded, crevassed, lines. The birds, lifting their small voices, like wind instruments, for gnomes, perk into the air, cold hands, cold. Floating, like a dream, like the feelings, like the memories, suspended, how can I return? Each night I open myself up, and there you are, but I cannot be, and you beckon me to feel, to transport, to reach out.