today's afternoon justwrite

Get rid of that feeling, like wind on your face, hair blowing too close, eyes dry, with your skin telling stories that turn fish into sea monsters and the reflection of the sun on a pond into something you can touch until it sinks down so deep you can't reach and you have to learn the hard way that you never could breathe underwater, or at least breathe air underwater, like how you can speak in outer space but your voice can't find itself without an invisible someone pressed up close, ready to contract when the time comes, an accordion untouched on the floor across the room, too far to walk without shoes because splinters wait longer than any woman can and skin is softer than steel--but them again a lot of things are. I can find only a basket full of peaches soften than starlight. You need something harder to read by, but as long as there are no lines on your paper, you still remember how to write in the dark which makes life less scary at two in the morning when you're wondering where you live because you're sure there were streetlights there, wading pools where you could find yourself, reassemble your thoughts, weave them into a string and hold one end, convincing yourself the moon is a kite and the stars look like birds without wings, without beaks, with quieter songs because they've been in outer space their whole lives and know how to find music without a tune, without ears even because really all they have is heat and light too bright to read by and a faraway view of something so small they can't see the details anyway.