What to do with the rose blushed horizon line which skims across the water in my winter veins. How to inhabit the warmth of this strange contentment. Without scratching at the walls inside. Absent the agitation. Independent of the crush. Without tearing into my secret sick reserves. All of the shadows I worship, the beautiful pain I seek. If I let go of the rage, who would I become and how would I go about unthreading trickery from truth. What if the bottom of the ocean suddenly reversed its mind, out of nowhere became infinite sky. I can almost reach it as though bending my body back into the forward motion of time. If I trusted the color in my own eyes was meant entirely for me. A silent universe spins soft against my thin-ribbed imagination. How cold this wandering, how glittered, how pristine. Footsteps in the open air. All the world brighter. And even the chaos is, at least for now, clean.
Even the snow is a story. The navy blue sea sky above the white gray houses, waiting. Cold floors and vacant air in my lungs, waiting. Do you remember what I said to you, my sweet sweet story-burdened creature with your beaten heavy wings. Inside the blanket where the darkness takes you over. Wrapped like a softened animal, shivering. Your eyes burning with that desperate haze which glazes your soul with tears like a bowl shines wet before it can be ready. I opened my mouth and swallowed each last drop of the panic you held tight in your clenched stomach. I told you the morning was on fire. That if you hold on you will not be able to stop the colors from coming for you. If you stay with me, every shade of every shade will come and come and come and you will hear them without even trying. I offer you my tongue and you take it. I offer you my hands and you take them as if you didn’t even know. I can feel the warmth melting like ice drips from spring trees between us. The story is the story. Your body, your mind, your soul, your skin and speech and dreams. Your cravings, your teeth. Your tired eyes and messed up needs. These words you have let seep inside of your blood and sail through your blue veins like it’s nothing but a moment dying or saved. Or both. It’s all a story, my precious precious thing. Even the snow, falling just now all around you. Alone with me. We are a story. Waiting.