I close my eyes
as I dwell on the first level of an old,
familiar bunk bed where it seems like
the world ceased to change.
words begin to form
and get stuck in my chest eating away
the fleshly patterns of perspective. tonight we are close
to touching the sheer fabric; the fulcrum of holding
on to each breath for as long as I can.
the wind is silent
carrying the common things that used to be
what defined my personality. every written journal entry memorializing
that innocent nine year old me chasing, floating, laughing
away. what could be more of a nostalgia that returning
to the borrowed days?
my eyes never want to open again.
I tend to hope more than I expect
as mystical as the clouds
as cruel as distance
gentle and quiet and always sure
it's getting so old
*
