Sweat cools
on the tops of our shoulders.
The sun drops  
and the beat follows.
A moment of blackness first,
followed by
a rock candy colored infinity.
It dances, without apology
and blankets me in light.
In the spaces between
spilled beer and green smoke,
time is a foreign language
that no one cares to learn.

Beyond a wooden door
there is a room
where we sit and grow
three years older together.
Many words spoken,
all ranks broken.
But a thing is always there—
staining whatever it touches.
Blackberry juices fingerprinting
all of my bright white hopes.
A thing molts in the stale air,
trailing feathers
that wean and wane
by the force of our hot breath;
always there in that room
where we denied tomorrow
every credit it begged for.
A thing we gave every other name
aside from its given.
A thing. A simple thing.

Sweet, but not too sweet.
Life balances
on the tongue of fate—
clicking and rolling
behind her cackles and trills,
while we act as if
these bitters are all we’ll ever
have the chance to taste.
“Breathe and savor,” she says,
“Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”

Cold air on the cheeks makes
for a natural blush.
This is a “healthy” look—
I read once from a banned book,
on mute,
in my parent’s bathroom
while everyone else was dreaming.
A “healthy” truth I’ve always
kept hidden under my tongue,
exposed only to moments
matured for keeping.
Licked lips, feel a sting and a dare
to think that I may never really
unlock that door.
That I might just continue
reading words, unapproved,
while other eyes stay shut.
Hiding healthy truths under my tongue
until I’m brave enough
to speak or
swallow.

Hers is a light
begging to be refracted,
with a need to brighten
much more than one dark corner.
Hers is meant to break into
a thousand different directions;
colors for interpretation—
not solely admiration.
She will not dim
by the beam of anything brighter,
but absorb what she sees
to illuminate pathways
for travelers who seek her
as a source.

One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride *me.

Instinct tells us to
grip something
when the ride gets rough.
Then, lights flicker
and a moment becomes
fight or flight.
Our guts wrench,
our souls double down,
and we listen for it.
Music has got to be proof
that this isn’t our last stop.
We’re all on this train
until we get off.
Might as well get caught
dancing this journey
to a beautiful halt.