What it is
What it is this.
Amazing
Stupendous
Fantabulous
Grandiose
Unexplained
but Understood
But these are just words. Lots of words.
It is the rhythm that I feel pulsating through my body in music.
It is each and every bit of steam that makes my showers so glorious.
It is the quick and then more dangerous, longer glances that are made at the moon low in the sky as I drive around at odd hours of the morning.
It is of course the dew sitting on my windows that makes the stories I told that morning visible once more.
It is my cat greeting me at the door when I come home.
And then her visiting me on the toilet, no matter what time of day or night.
It is walking around the tiled floor while making patterns in my head of where to place my foot next.
It is smelling the fire being burned next door, outstretching your arms and falling back with no worries on that steep hill where you slide in the mud and gravity.
It's the few minutes of first getting into that scorching car.
Picking up beloved film you have held on to for so long.
Seeing old friends and seeing how they still wish to continue with the same acceptance that they left on.
It is smelling of sweat and of sex and not caring.
Passing out after days of nonstop movement in all forms.
Disappearing to then reappear.
Thunderstorms-watching them announce their arrival.
It is what it is.
Which is so many things that words tend to tie rope to and keep it fastened to the ground.
Securely.
It is what it is and what it is will soon be gone.
Very soon.
But that is how it is sometimes.
Amazing
Stupendous
Fantabulous
Grandiose
Unexplained
but Understood
But these are just words. Lots of words.
It is the rhythm that I feel pulsating through my body in music.
It is each and every bit of steam that makes my showers so glorious.
It is the quick and then more dangerous, longer glances that are made at the moon low in the sky as I drive around at odd hours of the morning.
It is of course the dew sitting on my windows that makes the stories I told that morning visible once more.
It is my cat greeting me at the door when I come home.
And then her visiting me on the toilet, no matter what time of day or night.
It is walking around the tiled floor while making patterns in my head of where to place my foot next.
It is smelling the fire being burned next door, outstretching your arms and falling back with no worries on that steep hill where you slide in the mud and gravity.
It's the few minutes of first getting into that scorching car.
Picking up beloved film you have held on to for so long.
Seeing old friends and seeing how they still wish to continue with the same acceptance that they left on.
It is smelling of sweat and of sex and not caring.
Passing out after days of nonstop movement in all forms.
Disappearing to then reappear.
Thunderstorms-watching them announce their arrival.
It is what it is.
Which is so many things that words tend to tie rope to and keep it fastened to the ground.
Securely.
It is what it is and what it is will soon be gone.
Very soon.
But that is how it is sometimes.