blue eyes and dirty brown hair. told me once i was an adventurer--born that way, stay that way forever straight down to my core. the problem with being an adventurer is i love every situation. i love the messy, the difficult, the diseased, the fight. i love the flood. i love the fallen.
you open your mouth to sing soft songs, and smoke spills out from your lips in breaths and chorus lines. tracing the rivers in the palms of my skin, dipping deep into the crevices and cracks of my fingers and i love the feel of soft nails running across my stomach. marble eyes drowning me. ebony hair and braids and ribbon wrapped gifts from my head to yours. lying in the grass, arms extended above our shoulders and reaching out to the hill, she said "i feel like i could just fall asleep here." welcome to my mind, dear. i could sleep for days in shallow canyons of grass and dirt and weeds and breezes blowing clouds slowly overhead, worms and beetles moving quickly underneath. sometimes i only want to entangle myself around your waist and grab onto something and throw you up into the air.
i keep closing my eyes and seeing these birdy-branches hanging from my ceiling, levitated by thin wires and clear string. i see dozens of vintage mirrors adorning my crumbling walls and making everything look more open. robin blue ashtray. wranglers box half full of dainty cigarettes. taxidermy heads mounted on my wall, constructed of chicken wire and painted with old pages from a french magazine. but i know too little about history or literature to consider myself erudite.
when you close your eyes for the last time--pay more attention than you ever will.
