Ghost of the Coast
Sometimes I forget what night looks like. Her sapphire skin sweating handfuls of stars, clouds painted shady like smoke over the moon's pouring light. I forget what it's like to walk through the air as it stings me, the glow of dark as it soothes me, the shadows of love as they tempt me. Some days I want to stay awake to see history. I want to see it all fall into my windows like cosmic cool. Sometimes I imagine myself a stranger, born into the world to exist for no one but the tribes of starlight that seep through the cracks in my walls. These burning beings would enlighten my refuge. And somedays I wonder why anyone everyone else has to break walls down at all.
I guess it's peculiar when you wake at a decent hour to the pink sky, smell the way Colombia might, and see daisy chains and swans floating in the air. Nightlife has taken a rest under my pillow. Saturdays and summers are the breeze I feel when I decide to act like a person.
When I step outside I can taste possibility. I can see faces and places like sunshine reflecting off of car windows, store windows, my eyes. Other peoples' skin.
I feel these thoughts that run wild like poetry, weaving through me and connecting to other people. I feel other people. I feel the earth, and the way it holds so much more than I could ever dream of. I'm finally feeling... something at least, something like a wave before it bursts on the shore. My water is made of worldly particles that remain unexplained.
I love the way the sky moves me. I love the way I can move my feet and close my eyes and end up home, which is really miles away from my own.
I feel home in strange places. I feel home in other people' eyes. This is unfamiliar, but maybe it's because my ties to comfort have frayed and fallen apart. It's a new fire which burns magically through my bones.
A young girl smiled at me as I slid my hands along painted dishes. The smile was light like atmosphere, but it hit be like wonder. I was called well-read. I talked to the fungus that lounged on the water's surface.
I bought so many books. The sky was gray and I looked at each book like it was power.
My body feels like a weapon.
I guess it's peculiar when you wake at a decent hour to the pink sky, smell the way Colombia might, and see daisy chains and swans floating in the air. Nightlife has taken a rest under my pillow. Saturdays and summers are the breeze I feel when I decide to act like a person.
When I step outside I can taste possibility. I can see faces and places like sunshine reflecting off of car windows, store windows, my eyes. Other peoples' skin.
I feel these thoughts that run wild like poetry, weaving through me and connecting to other people. I feel other people. I feel the earth, and the way it holds so much more than I could ever dream of. I'm finally feeling... something at least, something like a wave before it bursts on the shore. My water is made of worldly particles that remain unexplained.
I love the way the sky moves me. I love the way I can move my feet and close my eyes and end up home, which is really miles away from my own.
I feel home in strange places. I feel home in other people' eyes. This is unfamiliar, but maybe it's because my ties to comfort have frayed and fallen apart. It's a new fire which burns magically through my bones.
A young girl smiled at me as I slid my hands along painted dishes. The smile was light like atmosphere, but it hit be like wonder. I was called well-read. I talked to the fungus that lounged on the water's surface.
I bought so many books. The sky was gray and I looked at each book like it was power.
My body feels like a weapon.