Fingers make contact with hands,
we can’t stand like,
butter
flies
on
a
tree branch
amidst a strange wind.
Fluttering above
trees rooted in sidewalks,
out of sight.
And it feels like
the texture of our shirts
is truth,
the cat fur,
the bed sheets,
our clenched teeth,
Molly whispers in our head
a meditative melody,
and we’re rollin,'
our infinite eyes
hung together
in widened silence,
enjoying a good lie.
Indigo children
with no words, just hands,
applauding the feeling,
dreading the end.
Time past,
grown up,
deflated,
we come down
to see that
sober is just
categorizing
adjectives.