My heart moves so fast that I need the stillness of the ocean to dance with each beat. My passion burns from a well that meets its maker in another as strong.
How do you mourn for people who died because you were born?
When oceans are scarred, rivers get formed. Some say trees are born that way. And me? I shine a bit more.
I could not eat cabbage a day more. Drape maturity and be decked with carefully placed color. Impulsive, reckless, a bit off. No meeting ground here. Fly with me or run your own game.
I would have liked to dance some more, but my feet hurt from yesterday’s wreck. Today, with blistered feet, I dance again.
I collect parts of myself, ones that roll like coins in a silent room. These are messages hidden in some corner, perhaps under the sofa. I put them in a teacup. No cream or sugar there. And I find the flavor of me again.
Ice on my face, the wind is sweet, as it carries my voice to the trees, and they bring back the sun, melting the dark eyes of winter.