Mother nature has been flirting with Spring and Summer again, but I fear she'll give Winter one last parting kiss.

I'm using these tattoos,
floating above bone and flesh,
to remind myself of what once sunk.

I’ve been told that my tongue is flirty,
And not only that but it’s wordy.
But try to put on a yoke
And I’ll laugh at this joke,
For my tongue will always be *****.

My breath and yours are made of stardust,
And will someday mingle in another’s being,
Or the midnight sky.

They gave me the wrong address when I was sent to boarding school this year.
Maybe it was the receptionist’s scaly hands that shook a little when she wrote it out, or the skies pouring out their sorrows onto my head.
Nevertheless, I’ve definitely been at the wrong school.
The boy at the end of the hall is always playing with fire and smells of ash, dark cedar and benzene, but he’s never burnt himself once.
There’s a set of twins, upstairs in another dormitory, who always flood the bathrooms, and all their clothes smell vaguely of salt and mildew and pebbles, and I think I can almost see the ocean in their watery blue-green eyes.
On the rare occasion that I find myself wandering near the lake, I can’t help but feel watched, not from above or behind as would seem natural, but from below and ahead
All the first year students I know swear on their lives that the walls and stairs move to trick us, or bring us to our destination faster depending on one’s luck.
My rhetoric professor’s eyes droop and film over during lectures and he scarcely moves millimeter from his statuesque place at the podium; yet he never fails to catch the slightest indiscretion or misplaced gesture from a student.
Meanwhile, the choral director’s ears are said to be as pointed as her canines, and her hair to be of the deepest black and violet.
I’ve growing suspicions about the gardens in the back of the kitchen, all tangled over and wreathed in what seems to be an ancient species of briar, though I’ve never seen a rose bloom, nor the gardener cease from his endless pruning.
Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of insect-and-birdlike creatures flitting around the windows, and the moths around here seem rather foreign, though I’m assured the difference in flora and clime requires differences in adaptations.
The older students oversee the halls with the kind of aloof confidence built from familiarity and practice, and laugh easily about missing articles of clothing or assignments, as though a mischievous spirit or creature had nicked it. They, too, seem to disappear around twelve o’clock, not to be seen again until tea time.
There’s a section of the library which seems to positively seethe with darkness and cold, and only the bravest and boldest dare ask for entry.
And oddly enough, after a rather jostling ride by rowboat to the gates at the beginning of the year, the headmaster greeted us all by name and only drew a blank once, at mine.

As I stand firmly on the edge of the abyss
Knowing full well it has come down to this
Take a step forward, over the line
Falling forever into the recesses of time

And yet as I fall, hurtling through space,
I see threads past and present fall into place.
Wings slowly emerge as I shift focus again
And follow the threads through worlds unending

Passing by stars like a bird in mid flight
As imagination and I with strange worlds collide
Bringing to tip the entire galaxies scale
Stripping all of it bare as I pull back the veil

And yet further it expands, limitless, unbound.
Edging just from my grasp and falling around
My body, just a slip of flesh
Curled in ephemeral folds of a space time mesh

Just as quickly as it started I am back in a flash
Standing where I once stood on the abyss's edge
With the flexing of muscle and the spreading of wings
I fall into face forward to do it all over again

When you're a child, hotel rooms are magical, a place for pillow castles and blanket superheroes;
When you're a child, an empty paper towel roll is a telescope or sword, Excalibur in disguise;
When you're a child there's a man who runs on the telephone wires as you watch from behind car windows;
When you're a child you're told to act your age and grow up, to behave, sit nicely and mind your manners if you want special privileges.

So you do what you're told, and you grow up.

But when you grow up, hotel rooms become places for weary collapse in the stale cigarette burned blankets of a cheap road trip motel, or intimate rendevous with someone you can't take home.
When you grow up, an empty toilet paper roll is a reminder that you need to get groceries but you're running low on cash and payday is in a week and why don't we have any clean rags in this house?
When you grow up, you forget the telephone wire man because now you're driving and so help me I will turn this car around if you make one more sound back there!
When you grow up, you wish you didn't have to act your age or be grown up, you grumble at your boss and swear at the guy who cut in front of you because who the @#$% does he think he is?!

They don't tell you that when you grow up, you might lose your wonder.