Aug 07

Temporary Air

When my lungs run out of oxygen, I breathe in hope instead.
My tongue knows the taste of sweet imagination,
of holding on with stubborn fists,
and I sit,
spewing what-if’s until they fold themselves into carbon dioxide
or force me to choke.

They say I keep my head in the clouds,
but I know the clouds are all in my head,
and I lose myself in their shifting shadows,
as they twist into the drifting shapes of a future.
You might call me a dreamer,
but have you seen my dreams?
Because a mind so lost in fantasy
sees a hundred ways of heartache,
but knows a thousand more that could go right.

So when the world turns dark, I’ll fall into the grass, eyes up.
They tell you the sky behind the stars is dark and empty,
but I looked for myself, it’s luminous beneath those brilliant specks.
And I can’t dictate the movements of those stars
but my god, can’t you see how they could align?
My fingers have traced every constellation they might make,
connecting them through the vastness of space.

Turns out they weren’t so far apart.

Lie with me.
I can tell you their myths.
I can tell you how to spin suns into orbit and watch them turn in tandem, twirling, glowing.
And if you want, I can tell you stories where you and I can turn with them,
where we can live and breathe with more
than temporary air.
About the Author: QueenofDawn
"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." -Flannery O'Connor