The summer air, I fear, brings a sort of mania.
Starting with the breath of mother nature's warm breeze
through my car window, and ending with my face pressed into the ground.
A sort of emotional and drug induced black out. In between is a madness.
Flowers bursting from their shy buds inside the bones of my arms.
Fireworks up the filaments and out the anthers.  
Sparking the tribal chants and patterns trying to live inside
my white blood cells. Forcing them to expand
and break, releasing a fever for sun and soil.
A sort of combustible stage production inside my veins.
Yes.  The summer air, I fear, brings an awful mania.

When I close my eyes I can still feel the swaying.
Side to side, back and forth,
constantly tilting one way or the other.
My mind is still standing on sea legs.

It's funny how much faster we adapt on the outside.

When I first stepped on that boat,
I didn't know where my point B was exactly.
Only that my point A was a place I couldn't handle anymore.
So I took on the sun and salt.
Before long my skin was a cocoa bean.
My hair waved with the water.
My fingers and toes grew calloused but quick.
I'd traded in "street rat" for "sea urchin".

You could see for miles on that floating piece of heaven.

Something happened out there, though I'm not sure what.
I didn't get off at the first dock. Or the second, or the third.
I'd lost count after awhile. The sea was my home.
I could fill a night with talks of trade winds.
I thought I'd made a home out of misfits and maps.

My mind hasn't quite caught up yet.

It doesn't understand why I left.
One day we stopped, and I just started walking.
Sand, grass, and dirt replacing soft worn wood.
The forest draped down around me in an eerie green embrace.

I knew there was no turning back.

I still have skin like cocoa beans, though it very rarely burns.
My hair still waves like the beautiful pacific,
but it's become decorated with flowers and leaves.
My hands and feet remain calloused,
but now they are stained with berry juice, and tree sap.

Digging my toes into the earth, I wait for my mind to meet up with me.

Your lips are a permanent marker.
Inscribing your love for me over every inch of my body.
They have written your name on my collar bones.
Covered my hands in your fantasies.
Left adjectives of affection on my stomach and thighs,
and turned my back into a portrait of your lungs.
Promising to spend every breath you have left with me.
You laid out our someday's, and sealed them with a kiss.

At night I place my hand over my heart.
Feeling for the beat that means I'm still alive.
Still here. Still breathing. Still worth it.

I can remember the day you brought me flowers.
You showed up, shirt pressed, with that same sad smile.
I didn't want to tell you the truth.
That my lips had already known another man,
that my finger tips burned at the thought of his skin.
So instead I told you that I only saw you as a friend,
despite the weeks of rough *** and stolen time together.
After everything, how could I admit that you were so much more?
I'd already proven that you were clearly not enough.

Tonight I'll place my hand over my heart with tears in my eyes.
Praying that for once I'll be able to believe it's beat means I'm still alive.