living in the moment justwrite

Know the habits of footprints to disappear except when they are on the surface of the moon, sand so fine it is dust resting eternally in swirls from windstorms that dissolved into the universe so long ago we're not sure how it happened, which isn't much different from two years ago when apathetic glances were harsh and the grass was dry, sharp edges crackling against the bottoms of my feet, and being barefoot wasn't tasting soil but tasting blood, like bees darting in from the sky and out again before you learned what it is to be a bee, what it is to dance instead of talk and spend your whole life with flowers and honey, the weight of the fear when a their is nearby that nothing will be exactly like this moment, not even the memory of this moment, so I look into mirrors that are not mirrors at reflections that reflect everything that isn't my skin and wait for the time when waiting will stop before I realize the silence of the voices in this room is solid enough to stand on, soft enough to sleep in, and I stop to rest my tired feet until I grow my wings.