earthbound
The air loiters, livid with the mysterious fevers that beset the atmosphere from time to time. Thick, humid fingers of suggested hands grope and maul without the least notion of boundary or propriety. What clothing you keep ends up mopping up these seepings, while the hot wind argues nothing less than thunder. The sky is flecked and stippled, these patch work helpings of steam and exhaust that pass for clouds. Overcast and underwhelming, heaven has to have its say.
It doesn't take much to reach that border line. It doesn't take much to scratch until you bleed. Flies light in disturbing patterns, landing closer and closer, seeming to stare right through. A single wasp leaves a purple blossom and spills up over the eaves, as if gravity had a momentary lapse. An insatiable itch travels the hidden geography of nerve and consciousness, nuzzling toe and wrist and throat. You would try to scratch it if you thought for a moment there was hope for relief.
Sweating you remember that tiger-striped sky, full of swathes of myths and hidden constellations. The moon half-full on its optimistic side, hovering uselessly over the roof, Jupiter alone between scraps of clouds. You made out Pegasus by default, seeing most of Cassiopeia. You watched as the sea of leaves revealed two blinking stars in its tides. How you ached then for these maps and mysteries. Something past these perpetual crimes of flesh and nature, past endurance and survival. Some small flavor of something remembered, a sliver of a dream, the cusp of a grand revelation.
The air loiters, livid with the mysterious fevers that beset the atmosphere from time to time. Thick, humid fingers of suggested hands grope and maul without the least notion of boundary or propriety. What clothing you keep ends up mopping up these seepings, while the hot wind argues nothing less than thunder. The sky is flecked and stippled, these patch work helpings of steam and exhaust that pass for clouds. Overcast and underwhelming, heaven has to have its say.
It doesn't take much to reach that border line. It doesn't take much to scratch until you bleed. Flies light in disturbing patterns, landing closer and closer, seeming to stare right through. A single wasp leaves a purple blossom and spills up over the eaves, as if gravity had a momentary lapse. An insatiable itch travels the hidden geography of nerve and consciousness, nuzzling toe and wrist and throat. You would try to scratch it if you thought for a moment there was hope for relief.
Sweating you remember that tiger-striped sky, full of swathes of myths and hidden constellations. The moon half-full on its optimistic side, hovering uselessly over the roof, Jupiter alone between scraps of clouds. You made out Pegasus by default, seeing most of Cassiopeia. You watched as the sea of leaves revealed two blinking stars in its tides. How you ached then for these maps and mysteries. Something past these perpetual crimes of flesh and nature, past endurance and survival. Some small flavor of something remembered, a sliver of a dream, the cusp of a grand revelation.