It starts at the goddamnedest moments, between turbulence and the first sip. The way trees feel once symbiosis lies shattered by fire. The way puzzles lie incomplete when their writers retire. The way she looks when you choose your dreams over hers. If I could take you on vacation, it would be so far away as to forget.
For instance.
What if I knew of a forest of blue-winged crows whose panicked calls mimicked chipmunks and construction? Or a city in need of tenants, to take up the apartments overlooking Chinese firecrackers and pirate ships? Where we might seek refuge in a home where each blow comes to rest before striking, and silk teeth retainers find safe harbor from breaking waves. How close would we get before turning back? Close enough to peek inside.
For instance.
An endangered land, from where all the forest people fled, irradiated in sorrow and fear, leaving behind animals to thrive and speak of what we've wrought. This zone of alienation is quickly becoming the last place we might find where you won't have to fight so hard to hold onto the sleep you so exquisitely deserve. How long could we last here, before the driven returned? Reclaimants.
For instance.
Rain.
For instance.
I sleep through the goddamnedest moments, between absolute pleasure and pending pain. And I fill those missing instants with flashes of brilliant instances, images of contortionists and dive bars and ill-fitting hats and giant hands! and three coffee beans for luck, and if I can't fight this sleep, I fill it with the fear of parting. And as we know, it's always most pleasant at the parting. I hope you know why I fell on the floor, exhausted from the waiting. I hope you know I lie there, immovable, trying so very hard not to think.