Wind and Windowpane

If you close your eyes,
you'll feel the wind in your hair,
palms clinging to the peeling metal paint,
pushing your weightless body into the sky,
floating out the sunroof,
as your heart pulses to the beat of
The Song You'll Never Find Again
The Song That Really Only Exists in This Moment
streaming from the panel of
bright orange emotion, tangy and sweet
all together, echoed from the
invisible song.
Let's escape, let reality vanish –
there was something there, a memory of it –
its contents forever forgotten – thank god.

If you open your eyes,
the ghost of fireworks that exploded
on the inside of your lids
will linger atop the glassy windowpane,
just enough to make out the effervescent
roses of Sharon, the plum-toned daisies
and yellow echinacias,
the blushing periwinkles and
swampy tulips that don't really make
sense, either. The air is sparse
and quiet, waiting for its life to finally
spark, to surface, an apprehensive
silence that only you know will
never end.

When the breeze is riding your locks,
turning their dusky brown to
glinting golden and the mesas,
the mountains, pale gray-brown
to spicy orange and deep green
so whole, so real,
so alive you can taste it.
Let's escape, until reality becomes
an un-remember-able memory.
Nothing here makes sense,
either. But who said it had to?
This is the true you. The you that is
authentic, at-heart, deep-down,
all the stuff, the fancy words.
Inner. Genuine. Original. Indisputable.
Real.
The song twists and turns,
its drum following your own heartbeat,
laughter riding the fantasy's road,
head out the sunroof, joy.

Best you keep your eyes closed.