I enjoy collecting evidence of God rush of a feeling that it’s all going to happen soon I’d be a liar if I didn’t fess up your eyes helped show how soon love the old songs, like em, don’t belong to none not afraid, are you? implore on for everything, expect expanses wide as nothing just as it has always been, drift with this smoke ribbon into the dream called now is all
Your hands spell trouble--paradoxically, in red bruises that swell and blue veins that reach outward past the skin, searching for something fragile but intangible--like the song of a rare bird or the color that a peach turns one moment before ripeness--to cup in your hands and then preserve in the wooden box bolted down underneath your bed--if only you could figure out how to open it.
The box locks and unlocks spontaneously and you were never given a key.
Sometimes you hang from your bed upside-down and try to tease the box open with your eyes, praying to the absent stars that your brain will fall through to the top of your skull and click open the lock with its flipped-over thoughts.
You wink at the lock and it winks back, but does not reveal its contents and only flirts with the idea of openness.
After a while you swing yourself upright and lie with open hands until your palms’ little collection of colors and sounds floats toward the ceiling in an exhale so quiet, it borders on silence.
And you close your eyes, allowing the darkness to empty your mind of its divine fullness.
What are the chances, a woman like me, so obsessed with flowers, branches and leaves, finds something so beautiful, so lovely pressed against my chest, so intoxicating, that without another thought, I had to have him too?
I just collect so many flowers, leaves, sticks, pinecones, and rocks that my desk still looks like the outside. He's just so beautiful, like the things I collect, I want to hold him close and look at him forever.