what begins to bother me after a while is the sameness of both what i want and what i hate, and the way they start to manifest themselves in the patterns of the shadows of my ceiling. if i had a sledgehammer, i would pound that ceiling up and out at night, so that i could see something above me. i want to see the absence of stars in the sky and feel them running through my blood instead. i want to feel my name, feel it inside of me, who i am and what i am made out of. i miss the musical quality that names begin to lose when they are said the same way too often. i miss being able to speak my name and think it something beautiful, not something i lack.
(i heard the sound of fireworks, and i thought
for a moment
that it was my heart sparking.
be still, my soul; think on letters, on packages & love & indian summers & stars at night, rooftops & dust storms & carrot cake. think on tall & short glasses of water, of the smooth feeling of a glass in the hand, of clearness & the gentle path over the tongue & down the throat, liquid that washes you in the moment. think on the blackness of charcoal, the way fingers brush & stroke shape into the thick, dark dust, giving depth & layering visions where there is no light. think on pink snouts & the chuckling, happy grunting sounds of a baby piglet.
think not on the whys and the hows and the
but ifs. only think on the fact that,
in this world,
there is such a thing as that sort of miracle.