i hold my lungs still.
my space, still.
i hold still lest my entire self float and scatter.
like soft white feathers bursting from their fabric confines, scatter.

fragile, you search me.
face to face, seeking  to understand me.
a physical manifestation of my favorite form of love.
like breathing in all i exhale and the spaces between, love.

I am in love with gray sky mornings. They make me wish I sang mezzo-soprano. They make me wish I had a distinguished streak of white running through my hair. They make me wish I held all the wisdom I will ever possess, but with the sprite heart and energy of a 10 year old wearing worn out sneakers. Gray sky mornings seem to represent a middle world, an in-between plane of absolute sweetness and impending doom. But not the scary apocalyptic doom, rather the powerful, majestic and mysterious kind of doom. Gray sky mornings are the worlds way of saying hold your sunshine anecdotes of beauty and bliss, beauty is much too complicated to be confined to only the obvious blue bird scattered skies. Beauty is in the messy, the transitions, its in the muddling of good and not so good, its is the unknowns, the half-ways and the try and try and try agains. Beauty is in the grays.

from the sea she came
  fresh and pure and wild

to the sea she shall return
  spent, consumed, beguiled

begin she must, as well as end
  breathe, break, redeem

though never forget to savor the salt
  throughout the in-between