living justwrite

Living funeral after funeral, shrouding my eyes with ivy when I can't stand to stare at the sky, waiting for the sun to pass over or the moon to find its roots and shoot them deep into my stomach, the figurative kind where I feel music and taste music and taste apple pie, cooling on the window sill because I don't like warm fruit or orange security warnings in the morning. I do pour myself some tea quite frequently though, let it soak into the soil that is my skin, my lips with sweat beading across them, not theirs but the air's, as the clouds spill their humidity in tufts of mist on the wind where I toss the paintings that were once on my windows, stopped the light from shining through quite so clearly. I try to avoid the scenes I've seen before, but I take pictures anyway, refuse to toss them out because there could be a face or a shadow in the background that I want to remember, to trace onto the soles of my feet and plant in the Earth as it loosens itself behind me, makes room for the air and the distant edges of sunlight to soak in, like water used to when the sky knew how to rain, to unleash its tears against the ground, scream that it's so happy you can't even realize the inches of flowers and centimeter worms peeling the starlight from their eyelids, tucking it beneath their pillows and into their teacups, saving it for another day, always another day but night sometimes where I unroll dark blue silk that looks black to you and let it cast its shadow upon my toes.