(no subject)
The salt flat stretches out for miles. I raise my head for the first time after hours of watching my feet shuffle over the parched, cracked earth. The horizon is blue and white and gold, all the same color, all different. My lips are so chapped. The cord from my bag is cutting into my shoulder, and there is a raw, red line from it. I bring my hand to my mouth, drag my finger across the lower lip. It is bleeding down my chin, and the blood mixes with sweat to stain my shirt collar, all down my neck and chest, But I can't feel it. I am then on the ground, sitting, laying, squinting into the sky and then at the insides of my eyelids, squinting out the bright. I take off my shirt, drape it over my head. Despite the heat, the ground feels cool and soft and I fall asleep almost instantly.
I wake to the smell of a feather pillow, the dog, guitar strings. I lift my hand to my lip to see if I am chapped or bleeding, but it is soft and warm. I run my hand up the side of my face, through my hair, and then drop it loudly on the bed next to me. 3:04, says the clock. "Three oh four," I whisper, barely audible, scratchy through phlegm. The dog looks up. I lay my head back down and stare up at the sun. I slowly work my way to my feet and shoulder the bag. I build a city just on the horizon, all glass and granite, pulled from the earth. I become a soldier and fight a war for something I can taste. I wander between dreams and alarm clocks, white doves, sidewalk chalk. I draw pictures from what I've seen and what you've seen. The outlines are thick and coarse, chapped, calloused, parched. I fill them in with salt and sand, with colors I've seen you wear, with sea water and sky-scrapers. I am going to wake up and find them, trace them over and over until I get it right, until they are soft and warm. Help me fill them in.
I wake to the smell of a feather pillow, the dog, guitar strings. I lift my hand to my lip to see if I am chapped or bleeding, but it is soft and warm. I run my hand up the side of my face, through my hair, and then drop it loudly on the bed next to me. 3:04, says the clock. "Three oh four," I whisper, barely audible, scratchy through phlegm. The dog looks up. I lay my head back down and stare up at the sun. I slowly work my way to my feet and shoulder the bag. I build a city just on the horizon, all glass and granite, pulled from the earth. I become a soldier and fight a war for something I can taste. I wander between dreams and alarm clocks, white doves, sidewalk chalk. I draw pictures from what I've seen and what you've seen. The outlines are thick and coarse, chapped, calloused, parched. I fill them in with salt and sand, with colors I've seen you wear, with sea water and sky-scrapers. I am going to wake up and find them, trace them over and over until I get it right, until they are soft and warm. Help me fill them in.