In the delicate early hours,
I am thinking of myself
as a bubble,
or a series of bubbles
with flimsy skins
and hollows that wobble,
while everybody else
feels like concrete,
hard, solid individuals
who stomp about
doing what is necessary,
what is right.
They do not think of bubbles,
objects with brittle bones
or soggy minds.
Instead, they are cohesive,
set to collide head-on
with the like-minded,
faces that match their faces,
bodies with no fissures,
no anorexic cracks.