It’s all about the cinnamon left at the bottom of the mug
I’m not sure I’m alive
The sun is dialed up too bright
And the clouds are wallpaper
There’s barely a breeze
Everything is neutral
benign
silent
I am an empty jar with a spirit trapped inside growing younger
All I wanted was to escape gravity
To be walking in the parking lot and
have stepped above the pavement and be walking upwards
to find the purest of white craft feathers growing out of my shoulder blades
Instead you are behind me
calling
holding onto the string
the spine
and I feel my knees
lock
unlock
lock
unlock
the raw and unbending vertigo, gravity
pulling my shin bones
Where are the keys to my ribcage? I need to find them.
My soul is slowly leaving my body, again.
