Wednesday, March 6, 2013
A punch-you-in-the-stomach sunset. Your smell I want to dry up and rollup and smoke up. Maybe. Get high. The wind rips and stings and flutters and all of these things until you have to realize-force yourself to see- that you aren’t actually flying. The ground is a slip of the foot away.
I can feel pieces of me stretching and pulling to break off in a snap like a leaf off of a tree, shuddering off into the sky in flight like all of those birds we saw tethered to the telephone wire… breaking free. Busting out. All of us flying the coop, over the cuckoos nest. None of us birds are caged. Not a single one.
With my hands on your waist .. Relaxed (what a waste) … these hands like wings not talons. Alive. Restless. Flapping desperately but never REALLY making contact. There’s nothing to clutch with, and even if there were, there’s still nothing to hold on to.