all i have is earthquake breath,

it rattles the doors like knees without bone.

and i have become terrified to say anything

that might pick the locks.

wanting

the sky in its dark, brooding midnight black

stretches out before us like a spool of twine

unwinding around the stars.

and when the day is quiet, when we think no one is looking,

we reach up our arms like maybe

we can grasp just a strand or two,

like maybe we, too, can be something bigger.

what is it about humans that always leaves us wanting?

we wonder what it’s like up there in the clouds, in the endlessness.

if being so high up makes breathing easier or harder.

if we will ever find out what it’s like to fly and if we do,

will we spin around and around the moon like giddy kids

or will we hover and contemplate what we left behind.

but then we find some other thing

to grab our attention.

we are such flighty birds, such utter romantics.

we will kiss each other on open mouths

and breathe promises into existence

and when we fall asleep,

we will both dream about

the white feathered backs of wings.

temporary

gravity never quite drew blood from us.

we spin, dizzy.

we keep our feet running.

not away, only forward,

they say we are only dreamers,

but in dreams

we become something more, don’t we?

we joke that we are limitless

but we mean it.

we have decided on freedom.

and so it isn’t that we know nothing of staying

it is just that we believe in casting

a wide enough net to touch

everything even if

only temporary.

picket fences never mattered, not to me

your breath,

mimicking my

own,

is an orchestra of

plump fruit.

pears. peaches.

something juicy and running.

warm bread rising

somewhere.

the blessing of being.

i don’t need to tell you

that the ceiling leaks.

the floors have been gutted

and cold mornings make

frost dance on every glass surface.

but honey,

the raven still sings outside

our crooked fence,

and autumn sighs with it.

so i strum the soft skin

of your chest and

know it is my chest, too.

like glass

how prettily everything

(everyone)

seems to flutter around

her delicate features.

and i wonder,

what it would be like

to not be so ice

and blunt and brutal?

maybe i would float

like glass after an explosion.

maybe i would be soda pop and love letters

or sticky-sweet like syrup

oozing from the bottle.

maybe i don’t really care to be all light.

what if i put boulders under my tongue

and in my pockets on purpose?

maybe i do.

maybe

i don’t care at all.

playing cards

it is okay not to know,

or to know and be okay

with inconsistencies.

there will always be those

who trust and those who question.

but

some things are meant to be stories.