Feathers. Armchair. Lightbulb

I am trying to fall in love with the world again. I remember now, what it is to tumble freely, to let the gesture of each day sketch a course.  I know that this is symptomatic of vacation, but I want to vacate permanently.  I cast my eye upwards and the sky is plain, empty even.  My scattered collection of love affairs amounts to so many feathers, a collection in hairthin bone, but there is no body here. No bird.

I can smell my own body, and I find it comforting, appealing. I am sitting on a green wooden floor wearing nothing but high heels and lingerie. This is not to be provocative.  I simply cast my evening gown aside, while the sky remains, painted plain and unruffled across the day.

If I could make myself small, I would live in tatters. One soft body cast easy on an armchair. I would wear fabric light as eggskin and dance only in the thinnest of moons.

As it stands, I am one bright stone cast into an ever-widening river. I would live in expanse and let the world rest quietly with me. In every city however, I feel large and unseemly. I am a flash of neon, a fishing hook.  Perspective is everything.

I haven’t been waking in the morning.  One unprotected light hangs from a string above my artwork, and I waste away hours there, burning in the hot glare of twilight. I seldom read, and I play the same sad songs into infinity.  Something has to change.

Endnote:

this was a scrap written in a stolen moment. the band was on tour, amidst other distractions, and I haven’t written in awhile. now there is paint drying in my living room, food in the fridge, and time.

xx it’s good to be back