(no subject)
I dreamt in French last night
and, of course, as so often happens in dreams,
understood every word
I awoke with mystery syllables on my tongue, spilling over,
coloring my morning melancholy blue
broken charcoal sobbing
shaded in by something I think resembles hope…
quelque part je peux un jour appeler a la maison
the sadness before leaving, the sensation of flesh transformed by feather,
bones hollowed out and made flight-worthy light,
and the hope that these new wings will carry me someplace I can one day call home
and, of course, as so often happens in dreams,
understood every word
I awoke with mystery syllables on my tongue, spilling over,
coloring my morning melancholy blue
broken charcoal sobbing
shaded in by something I think resembles hope…
quelque part je peux un jour appeler a la maison
the sadness before leaving, the sensation of flesh transformed by feather,
bones hollowed out and made flight-worthy light,
and the hope that these new wings will carry me someplace I can one day call home