You belong to the wind; you carry maps in every pocket from left to right but never peek at them; you are lonely but never alone; you cling to sad but drink laughter through straws that twist and scrape; you are rained on but you know how to splash in puddles that press beneath you; you bleed each month, but you exist on two plains; you are loved but struggle with the aftershock; you are hungry; you sing; you hide yet are not always seeked; you have lied; you collect death behind the yellow and beside the red; you belong to autumn and poetry and every leaf you ever plucked and kept; you are in search of; you are searching; you have searched and sometimes you get closer; you are alive; you enjoy kissing but have a difficult time committing to mouths; you keep an extra set of drawers hidden to keep secrets; you keep secrets; you belong to the trees; you belong to the water that helps you float; you belong to February and blue; you are difficult; you are desired; you neglect your health; you are healthy; you do not always know the status of your sick; you like to dance but only when you are alone; you are often alone; you often forget to understand; you ask questions; you are questioned; you are split; you are; you; belong.
Black licorice is an acquired taste but sometimes, so is laughter. Sometimes we are asked questions that resemble excavators, digging at the pulp in our brain. You want to know you want to know you want to know. The rain can be a weapon or a home invader and if you fear the sound of its haunt, my body can become umbrella-like. I hear your traveled torso blushing and it is a bay like your homeland, salty and oceanic. Humans interview each other to let go of costumed memories. How about I tell you of the time I lit a year of my life on fire outside of my studio apartment and snorted the air which reeked of battery-operated oxygen. How about you tell me why I cannot seem to stop wondering how wonderful this all is. Two days ago, rain and beer-battered poetry and Colorado lovers lusting on each other’s bones and days before that: a trombone and ukelele duet and an opossum screamed into the air by a white man and you called my skin alabaster.