mapping the patterns of busy thoughts:

its 6:05 
and my fingers 
are fumbling over one another 
trying to untangle
the knots in my hair 

I sit in the place 
between perfection 
and chaos 
on the corner of main street
and south Williams 

and contemplate 
the consciousness of flowers 
before tripping on yesterday 
and falling into
tomorrow 

I once read about a girl 
made of cotton string 
who spent so long 
unraveling herself she 
turned into 
nothing 

today I found a piece of red string 
frayed at the edges and twisted in on itself 
and remembered 
sand between my toes and flowers in my hair 

I laid with the sun on my cheeks 
with the stars on my cheeks 

I dreamed of a million little dots 
all different colors and 
purple leather notebooks 
bound by 
yellow twine 
and broken memories 

and walked around 
a field kicking dandelions 
wishing for my skin 
to turn to copper 
and never rust 

its 2:13 
and my fingers 
are fumbling over one another 
trying to untangle
the knots in my hair