The wind doesn't whistle so much as it lightly breathes over this bottle that is where we live
The bottle of Earth
Or at least my city.

It's breathing with the sense of misplaced importance, like it's sure it's a foreboding wind, but it doesn't have the backing
Or the heart.

I hear it, feel it lap at my bare calves gently, as though I'm swathed in the tide that's just come in, just trying to hang.

I feel the wind, hear it, and wonder how much of what I hear is the airplanes on their path back home.

How much of what I feel is the memory of a trip I took to the beach once, where the bottom of my foot came in contact with a reef in the wrong way and I had to hobble back to our sitting spot on one good foot and a fresh-made blood-fist of a foot.

How much of tonight is fueled by the pills I took an hour ago and my own anxiety and stress and unease
How much of me is fueled by needing someone in my life
Needing an older guide
Needing someone with a couple of light-up popsicles to show me the way

The way back home from this humdrum, bottle-blowing existence.