The sun is coming up soon.
Its been hiding,
just like the rest of us.
From harsh conversations with
harsh people that poke at your soul,
and make your morals into a joke.
But your freckles embody the comfort that your smile dances with,
and your teeth chew lightly on the threads of the world.
But you whisper that you like to bite.
So bite hard.
With passion.
Fervently,
until you feel yourself chiseling away
into the broken threads
with broken shards of people
who can’t help to notice
the slight hint of sexuality,
most recognizable
by a light scent of perfume
masked by a stronger scent of humanity.
Which is broken too,
but less
like the painful splinter of bones
and more
like the fresh pop of a soda can.
I guess the shot-like bite of a cold sprite
isn’t really a coincidence.
But I don’t think anything really is.
But if nothing’s a coincidence,
then that would mean
I’m supposed to be here,
and you’re supposed to be there.
And I guess the world has a way
of cycling here’s and there’s to the point
that it’s just here or not.
Here or gone.
So if I look into your eyes,
and see time rolling forward
with the wave of your hands
to the petrified rhythms of ****** music,
I hope I will see past the present,
and into the tear
between your body and existence,
where your brain plays
with infinite grains of sand,
tossing them at mountains
trying to recreate the earthquakes
that brought them from the surface.
I hope you live.
I hope the black streaks
flowing with your tears
trace down your face into a heap
of emotion in your chest.
Because that is living.
Regardless of
good or bad,
joy or grief,
the tears form out of pure feeling,
ardent intent of the most innocent nature.
Alive, and full.
And in a place so dead and empty,
it helps to have
a few people like you
around.