Quiet disarray of blankets tearing apart at the edges, but silently so you don't notice, like a ballet or a tiny waterfall caught be the sun and melted into air. I want to know what it's like to become the sky, to be unsure of where I begin and end, dropping feathers into my boxes so I can look at them later, frame them and let you wonder why, content in not knowing anything but how it feels to have birds drift through your arms, a needle through a hem, not as piercing as you'd think, just finding the holes that are already there. You tear up all your recipes and throw them into the wind, let your measuring cups fall against the hardwood, chipping so all the milk drips out, like tears but slower, distracted by the women in the field outside losing their keys and finding them again, always aware that the door is unlocked but trying to put on a good show, as if their fingers aren't trembling and losing their whispers, as if the cracks in the clouds aren't so noticeable, a red flower in a white room, the sheets clean, folded and crisp, as if laughter would bounce off of them and find its way through the window, sneaking between particles of glass, not realizing the dust has nestled in my mind, filling the corners because I saved them for too long, wanting to teach myself to sing or to fly without really understanding where I want to go, if my footprints are lily pads asking for more time, sending their transparent blooms as close to the sky as possible before they're plucked, beheaded, taken back inside. I only notice from the corner of my eye, leaving the rest for tomorrow.