It starts slowly.
Like a knife breaking the skin of a plum.
And just moments ago, and even now, as the edge of your pillow holds the top of your neck like a baseball in the web of a brown leather glove, you slip feet first into that temporary peaceful patch of blackness which holds you at the ribs. With it's palms on your chest.
Dragging you through the air to the top of the clouds.
And on the edge of this cloud you sit with someone who loves you.
You watch the wind blowing the top of the ocean towards the beach, as the water reaches for the edge of the sand like it would a lover, moving like as if meeting the coast would save its life.
Like it was coming into a wake and falling asleep all at once.
And then the best thing in the world happens.
You don't see anything at all.
Nothing.
Except for a white marble floor that stretches for a billion miles in every direction, and the same thing beginning 200 feet above you.
And you think to yourself about how there is even a sharp piece of beauty that the world can find a way to stick into your bare stomach in a place that is completely empty.
And the whole time the person you are with never stops sitting with you.
Before you see things like this, it is so hard to understand the type of person you ever  were before, how you could live without accepting such a notion or some specific understanding on a consistent basis.  
And then you stop thinking about that because you remember that someone who loves you is sitting right beside you, and you turn to look at them as they stare off into the distance.
And you live the rest of your life seeing things in color.

We sit, screaming secrets that speed through the highways;and from our finger tips we cry out our hearts. We Spill'm across those highways, till languished love arrives at our recipients doors.  They sit and reply in kind. It’s a whole lot of blood, for such little time.

We’d sent each other fifty messages in five minutes, and, although my heart was typing for me, I felt that every word was worthless. Just like each one of these: I want to talk in ink. I want to wield a pen that men will fear, respect and pay heed to. But, here these words appear from buttons bashed by boredoms fingers; the madness of mind renegade.

I guess the thought doesn't count anymore.

.               her **** sprinkled spine.
                her blackened fingertips from a day cleaning and smoking in
                the pre-spring heat.
                her knife atop the stump.

memory is the root of mankind’s trouble.

                  lullabies  
                  her mother used to sang,
                  as the fish gasped and to the bone.
                  
wilderness, a strange enchanted girl.
              
            her bioluminescent tent.
            her blackened beans and tortilla-leaves and peelings of cheese.
            her knife to whittle a twig.

her moments grow like gardens left alone to ghost-over.
to sample the city wilderness
& then slip further away into a rearview idea.
new republic.

                  paradise. she’s up that trail there.

When I said it know I meant it and now your touch is like 600 degrees
I feel the weight of the world swimming laps in my arteries
and one day I'll learn to speak like it's coming from some artillery
hiding underneath the simpleness of someone else's symmetry
The world could pardon me but that's such a giant part of me and I fear losing myself or losing who I'm thought to be, before you were living blind and I'm feeling like I can't speak but this is the moment that you can see, before you even find yourself you're paying a finder's fee
But how else are you to be free if under the skin is where you find the key, and you've never been 6 feet deep or felt 6 inches in your chest burning to the 3rd degree
Sometimes it's only fear and all you know is how to flee but I carved an anthem about you on the side of a cherry tree, it grew one hundred feet tall and another hundred deep